


Something There That Wasn't There Before

by localswordlesbian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe – Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe – Disney, Angst and Feels, Beauty and the Beast AU, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Disney AU, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OTP Feels, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a bit of angst, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localswordlesbian/pseuds/localswordlesbian
Summary: The morning Martin wakes up and realizes his mother has wandered off, he knows he's in trouble. He just never expected this sort of trouble. Never expected a secluded castle beyond the woods, a friendly group of Archival Assistants trapped by an evil curse – a curse saying that if their boss, the reclusive Archivist Jonathan Sims doesn't have someone fall in love with him, he'll remain a monster subservient to the Beholding, and they'll all be trapped forever.Martin never bargained for curse-breaking, but he's never been a quitter.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 66
Kudos: 250





	1. Into the Woods

When Martin woke up to find his mother gone, he knew he was in trouble.

He silently cursed himself as he ran through the house, shouting for her as he checked every room he could possibly think of, even creaking open the door to the attic despite knowing perfectly well his mother couldn’t climb those stairs if she tried.

Not that she ever did, of course. But that wasn’t relevant. What was relevant was that she was gone, and Martin hadn’t the slightest clue of where to find her.

He stopped in the kitchen, pushing his hands through his unruly hair, willing his racing heart to calm down. _Just think, Martin. Where would she have gone?_

Staring out the window as the town whisked by on their way to run their errands for a typical Saturday morning, Martin grabbed his coat and ran outside. _Of course, you daft fool,_ he chastised himself. _She must have just gotten hungry and gone to get bread. Nothing to worry about._

Walking through the town, dodging chickens and waving hello to familiar faces, Martin kept an eye out for the small, familiar form of his mother. Instead, he spotted a man taping a sign to an old, wooden building. Martin smiled as the man turned, waving a friendly hello.

“Blackwood!” the man shouted jovially, sauntering over from his previous perch by the door of the town’s old library. “In the mood for a new adventure? We got a couple donations from a library over in the city. Some Leitner fellow? Didn’t get a look at the books, but I thought you might want to be the first to check them out.”

Martin smiled his first real smile all day. “Thanks, Phil, but I’m in a bit of a hurry at the moment. Have you seen Mum today?”

Phil frowned thoughtfully, rubbing his scruffy beard, stark white against his dark skin. “I think I did, now that you mention ‘er. Saw her walking down the road, towards the bakery. Probably went to get bread? You need to keep a better eye on that woman, my boy. She won’t be able to remember the way home for much longer.”

Martin nodded. “I know. Slipped my mind this morning.”

Phil placed a friendly hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Don’t apologize, young man. These things happen.”

“Thanks. Sorry about the books – I’m sure I’ll be back soon to check them out.”

“No rush – they probably aren’t going anywhere. Now go fetch your mum before she falls into that darned well.”

Waving goodbye, Martin set off down the road toward the bakery. Some people gave Martin a friendly nod or a wave, some gave him a wide berth in the streets. Martin, for his part, mostly kept his eyes ahead of him, until he felt something ram into his legs and wrap around his middle, nearly causing him to take a tumble into the dust.

“Jack, you’ve got to be more careful,” Martin scolded the little boy who was now latched on to Martin’s waist. “I could’ve fallen!”

The little boy, Jack, only giggled in response. “Mr. Martin, did you hear that Mr. Phil got new books in the library? Could you read them to me? Please? Please please please pleasepleaseplease –“

“Yes, Jack, I promise I’ll read them to you,” Martin said with a smile, prying the boy’s small, calloused hands from behind his back. “How about tomorrow morning? I’m a little busy today, but I promise I’ll read to you tomorrow.”

Jack pouted, his freckled face puffing up in annoyance. “Promise?”

“I promise. I’ll be at the well at noon.”

Seeming satisfied, Jack poked Martin’s nose with his finger before sprinting off in the other direction. Martin smiled to himself as he stood and continued down the road – he loved reading to the kids in the town, teaching them the joys that words could bring to the world. They were all a little young for poetry, which was Martin’s personal guilty pleasure read, but he enjoyed reading them children’s books and fairy tales all the same.

Arriving at the bakery, Martin nudged past the line outside, earning him grunts of protest and annoyed glares as he made his way to the window.

“Get in line, boy!” the baker shouted as he sold a loaf to an old woman in a dark cardigan and skirt.

“Sorry, Charles, I was just wondering if you’d seen Mum today?” Martin wrung his hands nervously, the eyes of the annoyed patrons feeling as though they were burning holes in his back.

Charles, the baker, narrowed his eyes. “I did, I saw her head towards the far end of town, towards the woods.”

Martin’s stomach plummeted as he hurriedly thanked Charles and began to walk quickly, up the road once again, a walk that turned into a run as his heart thundered in his chest. Why was she leaving town? What could possibly be in the woods? Where was she intending on going?

Martin sprinted beyond the buildings, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his legs carried him beyond the town and out into the woods. After what felt like an eternity and a second at the same time, Martin slowed, wheezing to catch his breath, as he beheld the looming, foggy forest before him.

_Shit._

Martin was oh so hopelessly lost.

After hours of trudging through the woods, twigs breaking under his heavy footfalls as he shouted for his mum until his voice was hoarse and his throat felt like it was splintering, Martin was beginning to lose hope of ever finding his mum or returning to town. He didn’t even know which way the town was anymore, with the looming figures of the trees seeming to make the paths shift right before his eyes. As he stopped in a clearing, his feet aching and his throat begging for water, Martin surveyed what was before him.

Fog seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see in all directions. Behind Martin was a steep cliff that he couldn’t hope to scale if he tried, to his left was trees and fog, same as behind him. To his right, he noticed, was a winding trail that led downwards, leading off to who-knew-where.

Breathing a sigh of defeat, Martin made his way down that path, hoping beyond all hope to either find his mother, the path back to town, or somewhere he could take shelter for the night. The creeping darkness paired with the fog meant he could hardly see in front of him, and the night chill was piercing through his coat and jumper. He shivered as he walked, trying not to let his mind spiral with thoughts of what could have happened to his mum, focusing instead on how his teeth chattered and his feet hurt and his shoulders ached from slumping in on himself in an attempt to stay warm. At the bottom of the path, before him stood tall iron gates, gates which had swung open, seeming to mockingly invite Martin inside.

Had Martin been in his right of mind, he would have immediately turned around and walked away. Though he couldn’t see through the fog, he knew there could be nothing good on the other side of the wicked looking gates.

But Martin was not in his right of mind – he was cold, he was in pain, and he was panicking. So, without a moment’s hesitation, Martin marched through the gates and emerged in what appeared to be a beautiful garden.

For a moment, Martin was awestruck, and he could feel lines from a poem he might write tickling the back of his mind. The stone path he walked on was made up of hundreds of pieces of what appeared to be ceramics and broken glass, forming a twisting pattern that looking at nearly made Martin dizzy. In the middle of the path was a tree, growing along a gnarled trunk and sprouting the most beautiful white, black, and red roses he’d ever seen. All across the property grew different types of flowers: rosebushes and peonies and lilies and lilacs guided Martin towards the massive structure looming before him: a massive gothic castle, dark in comparison to the beauty of the garden, with colossal wooden doors, dark bricks piling higher than Martin could see even when he tilted his head, with spires reaching for the sky and a massive clock: it read that it was half past midnight.

Shaking off a shiver that wasn't quite from the chill of night, Martin marched forward and pushed at the doors. They gave with surprisingly little resistance, and Martin walked into the castle foyer.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected – for the place to be abandoned, perhaps. Certainly not for the blood-red carpet underfoot to feel soft and to cushion Martin’s footfalls, nor for the dark wood of the interior to look as polished as it did. The foyer was brightly illuminated by a massive chandelier hanging above a grand staircase, which first went upwards before splitting off into left and right. There appeared to be old paintings on the walls, and cabinets lined one side of the front hall.

Beside the door was an ancient-looking wooden coat hanger, so Martin shucked off his coat and hung it up, standing by the door in his favourite yellow wooly jumper and jeans. He walked in slowly, wondering who could possibly be living here.

“Hello?” he called, then cringed as his voice echoed back at him in the vast, empty space. “Mum? Hello? Is anyone here?”

He got no reply, so he dared enter further. To one side he saw an archway that led to a room decorated with an intricate carpet and a comfy-looking sofa, with a roaring fireplace in front of it. The heat hit Martin’s face as he walked towards it, then paused as he noticed a second staircase behind the grand one.

This one was much smaller, leading downwards into what appeared to be a dimly-lit circular stone staircase. The spookiness of it sent shivers down Martin’s spine, and as he debated which direction to go first, he heard the sound of something moving.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice behind him drawled, and Martin yelped as he turned and saw a man standing in front of the couch, the fire behind him accenting his silhouette. As the man approached, Martin could make out more features: pale skin with sunken-in eyes, a lanky figure with long, poorly-dyed black hair and eyeliner accenting his gray eyes. Silver piercings glinted from his eyebrow, nose, and ears, and his nails were painted black that matched his outfit. “You looking for your mum? I heard you shouting.” The man smirked, placing his weight on one foot and crossing his arms in front of him. He seemed friendly, though, if a little intimidating.

“I–yeah,” Martin stammered. “She wandered off this morning? She’s, ah, not exactly in the rightest of minds, so, yeah. Have you seen her?” A hint of hope creeped into his voice.

The man shook his head. “Probably would’ve heard from the boss if she was in the house. Though, the boss can’t see into the basement – Michael and Helen make sure of that.” At Martin’s confused look, the man waved a hand dismissively. “It’s a long story, one that won’t be relevant once you get your mum and get out of here.”

“I–right,” Martin fidgeted with his jumper. He felt like a tele tubby next to this man, and curse Martin’s face for turning red, and he tried to convince himself that it was from the fire and not because he was anxiously facing a sort of cute guy who had just told him he needed to go into a creepy basement to retrieve his mum. “Didn’t you say not to go down there, though?”

The man shrugged. “I hate it down there. You’ll definitely get lost. But if Michael and Helen like you, they should let you go once you’ve found your mum.”

Martin nodded dumbly and tried to muster as much courage as he could, releasing his jumper and willing his hands to be still. “Uh, thanks?”

The man nodded. “No problem. Don’t die.” With that, he walked back towards the couch, vaulted his slim body over it, and settled down. No wonder Martin hadn’t noticed him before – he blended right in.

Taking a deep breath, Martin turned towards the staircase, and before he could talk himself out of it he started the descent.

The staircase was dimly lit by what looked like oil lamps, and Martin felt cramped in the narrow passageway. He felt humidity hanging thick in the air, and soon his ginger curls were plastered to his forehead and his shirt under his jumper was soaked through with sweat. Just as Martin questioned whether the stairs would ever end, his feet hit solid ground and a hallway stretched before him. A hallway lined with cells.

Martin stared at the sight before him, at the ancient looking dungeon that Martin didn’t want to think about why was there. As he stepped forward, he noticed that every cell he passed was empty, which gave him a small amount of relief. Whatever this was, it hadn’t been used in a long time. As he walked, he thought back to the man upstairs’ words.

_The boss can’t see into the basement. If Michael and Helen like you, they should let you go once you’ve found your mum. Don’t die._

Who was the boss? How could they see everything in a castle this big? Who were Michael and Helen? Martin picked up his pace, thoroughly spooked and wishing he were back home.

Eventually, he turned around, and nearly stumbled from shock. Behind him was a wall, where there certainly hadn’t been one before. Panic rising in his throat, Martin turned back around and saw with a start that there were now several branching hallways when before it had been a straight path ahead of him. His heart pounding and breath quickening, Martin grabbed the moist wall, wincing at the gross texture but forcing himself to hold on and ground himself. _Now is not the time to panic_.

Once the panic had become manageable, Martin looked up and saw with a start that there was a figure ahead of him. Familiar dark hair piled on top of the person’s head, and they were dressed in a nightgown and coat.

“Mum?” he called, and the familiar face of his mother looked up at him. As he walked over, her frown deepened into a scowl.

“Where have you been all day?” she demanded.

Martin winced. “I’m sorry. I was looking for you. You went really far, Mum.”

Martin’s mum glowered at him. “Useless. Just like your father.” Martin suppressed a wince, not wanting to let on how wounded he felt at her words. He’d gotten lost and tore his feet up for her, and all she could do was insult him.

Bitterness rose in his throat, and he crushed it down. _She’s ill. Let her be._ he chided himself. “Come on, Mum. Let’s get you home.”

“Yes, let’s,” drawled a voice that was not his mother’s from behind him. Martin’s shout echoed off the walls, and he heard his mother shush him sharply as he turned and saw a figure leaning on the wall. Behind him, the passage was as it was the first time Martin had looked at it – straight ahead toward the stairs. “I have no problem with letting _her_ go. A nasty piece of work you’ve got there, boy.”

Martin sputtered as he beheld the man – his long, curling blond hair fell past his hips, acting as a cape for his lithe frame. He was dressed in a suit of colours so bright and patterns so disorienting it gave Martin a headache just looking at it. But what was most notable about the man, aside from his high-pitched drawling voice, was his fingers – long and spindly, as though there were several extra joints extending them to inhuman lengths. The man leaned one shoulder against the wall, his long fingers dangling at his sides. “I don’t-“

“What do you think, Helen?” the man addressed someone over Martin’s head – despite how tall Martin was, this man was significantly taller. Craning his neck, he saw another figure similar to the first one: a woman this time, with dark curling hair that stood straight up before falling to her waist, a spiralling colourful dress, a manic grin, and the same long fingers as the man. “The woman gets on my nerves, but the boy is quite cute.”

The woman, Helen, gave Martin a slow once-over. Martin felt like his skin was crawling, as though the woman was trying to see into his soul. “He is. Wonder if he’d be the boss’ type.”

“Woah!” Martin exclaimed indignantly. “I am not just a piece of meat, I’ll have you know! I don’t know what your boss is running here, but I’m not interested!”

The woman – Helen – chuckled. “Ooh, a feisty one. I like him, Michael.”

So these two were Michael and Helen. “Look, I just came to get my mum and head home. I’d appreciate if you let me do that.”

Michael clucked his tongue. “Shame. Though I suppose we aren’t in the business of taking prisoners, so alright. You can go.” With a click of his tongue, a door appeared to Martin’s left. The door was warped, yellow, and did not look trustful at all. “Go ahead, it’ll take you home.”

“How did you–“

“You should stay behind.”

Martin stared as his mother cut off his question of how Michael knew where he and his mother lived to gape at her. “I–what?”

His mother glared at him. “I’d really forgotten how dense you are, boy. Stay here. I can return home without you. I think I’ll be better off.”

Martin found he could barely form a single word. “Wh–I–Who will take care of you?”

His mother sniffed and made her way for the door. “I’ll find someone. Do not follow me. Perhaps you’ll mope less here.” And with that, his mother stepped through the door and was gone.


	2. For The First Time in Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin realizes what his mother's actions mean for his future, and he finally meets this reclusive "boss" he's been hearing so much about.

Martin blinked at where the door had bin, his brain coming to a complete halt as he stared. What had just happened?

A whistle behind him shook him out of his stupor. He turned to see the two strange people looking at him. Helen looked amused while Michael looked troubled.

“Well, that was the most fun I’ve had since Mary dropped little Gerry off months ago!” Helen crooned, dropping to balance on the balls of her feet to be level with Martin – he hadn’t noticed he’d sank down against the wall, sitting on the damp ground.

“I have to say,” Michael mused. “She seemed nasty, but I didn’t expect that. Are you okay?”

Martin couldn’t answer. His mother wanted him to stay. She wanted him to stay in this terrifying castle with these weird people rather than going home with her. She no longer wanted him to care for her – he’d braved the woods, and for what? The bitterness rose in his throat again and threatened to choke him, and his eyes stung. He blinked, refusing to cry in front of these two. Whoever they were.

When he managed to look up, there was another door, this one purple, shimmering in the wall. Michael was looking at him, his expression soft. Helen had a gleam in her eye that made Martin shiver with apprehension.

At his doubtful look, Michael shrugged. “This will go to the dining room. You look like you’ve had a long night.”

Martin debated arguing, saying he didn’t trust Michael as far as he could throw him, but exhaustion weighed down his bones, and even holding his head up and eyes open was taking all his energy. So he took a step forward, opening the door and stepping through. As the door closed, he felt a pressure at the back of his head that had him groaning in pain before he stepped out onto solid ground, vertigo causing him to lean to the side before collapsing with a heavy _thump_.

He vaguely heard voices shouting as he drifted out of consciousness, and the last thing he heard was someone asking “Is he alright?” before the darkness took over his vision and he fell into blessed sleep.

Martin came to slowly, grogginess keeping his eyes closed. He heard several voices around him.

“He came through one of Helen’s doors. I wonder what happened.”

“I saw him when he walked in, freezing his poor arse off. Said he was looking for his mum.”

“D’you think he found her?”

“Do you happen to see an old lady anywhere around here, Tim?”

“Maybe Helen sent her through a different door!”

“Well, he’s here now, wherever his mum is.”

There was a pause in the conversation, then: “He’s pretty cute, though.”

“Oh for god’s sake, Tim–“

“What? I’m not wrong.”

Martin fought to open his eyes, bright light assaulting his senses as he took a deep breath. He vaguely saw three figures hovering over him. “Where am I?”

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” one of the figures exclaimed. Martin squinted, trying to make out any features, tono avail. Someone must have taken off his glasses.

As if on cue, a hand held them out to him. “Here,” came the kind feminine voice. Martin put on his glasses and saw a dark skinned girl sitting on the couch near his legs, with glasses of her own and her dark, curly hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She had a kind smile on her face. “How are you feeling?”

Martin sat up, attempting a smile back. “I– I’m alright. Confused, but alright.”

The girl smiled sympathetically, fidgeting with the hem of her dark T-shirt. “That’s understandable. My name’s Sasha. Sasha James.” She stuck out her hand to him, and he shook it.

“Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

Sasha smiled at him again. “It’s nice to meet you, Martin. Welcome to our weird little family.”

Martin took another look around the room. Standing next to Sasha was the man he’d encountered yesterday, dressed in a black studded leather jacket and ripped jeans. He nodded at Martin, and Martin nodded back. “Gerard Keay, but you can call me Gerry.”

“Nice to meet you,” Martin said meekly.

Lastly, next to Gerry, there was a man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt so bright and colourful that Martin wondered whether this man was Helen and Michael’s missing third. He was broad, with tanned skin and black hair that looked like it was purposely styled to be messy. He was grinning, leaning down and bracing his hands next to Martin and leaning close to his face as Martin leaned away. “Yeah, I was right, he is cute,” the man said conclusively, and Martin could feel his face heating. “I’m Tim Stoker. Guess you’re one of us now.”

Martin chuckled nervously. “And, uh, who exactly would that be?”

Tim leaned back, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. “Archival Assistants, which basically means we laze around and sometimes fetch a file for Jon.”

“Jon?”

“Jonathan Sims,” Sasha explained. “Our boss.”

That must have been the boss Michael and Helen mentioned. “Ah. Helen and Michael mentioned him. Wondered if I was, uh, his type? Anyone know what that’s about?”

The three assistants exchanged a look, seeming to have a silent conversation that Martin wasn’t privy to.

“That’s a long story,” Gerry finally said. “If you want to stay, you can. If not, you’re free to go. You don’t have any responsibility to anyone here.”

Martin considered Gerry’s words. He could leave, try and find his way back to town, figure out what to do. What _would_ he do? His mother didn’t want him, she’d made that perfectly clear. It wasn’t like he had friends he could stay with, and though he could live in the library he didn’t particularly want to burden Phil. He remembered his promise to Jack with a pang, wondering whether the boy was waiting at the well for him to return and read to him. “I–I don’t really have anywhere to go,” he said finally, cringing at how self-pitying he sounded. _Good job, Martin_.

Sasha gave him another kind smile, placing a hand on his knee. “It’s okay, Martin. You can stay here. It might even help, having another assistant.”

Martin nodded, returning Sasha’s smile shyly. “Do you guys live here? Is there anyone else?”

Tim pursed his lips. “Yeah, we live here, though not by choice.” Sasha smacked his arm. “What? Might as well tell him the truth.” At Martin’s concerned look, Tim’s face softened. “Basically, the boss pissed off a very powerful witch of a man, and we all happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. That place being here, and the time being when that bastard–

“Tim–“

“Fine, absolute piece of shit fucker–“

“Tim!”

“Oh, come off it, Sasha! You know it’s true. That asshole decided that the best punishment was to trap Jon here, turning him into an avatar of the Beholding until someone falls in love with him. So, of course, Jon being Jon just locked himself upstairs in the West Wing half the time because he thinks no one could love a monster.”

“Give Jon a break, Tim. It can’t be easy for him.”

“I know it’s not.” Tim sighed, meeting Sasha’s eyes for a moment before looking back to Martin. Gerry stood quietly off to the side. “Look, I love Jon as much as any of you guys, but this is getting ridiculous. The longer he stays locked away, the longer we’re stuck here.”

Gerry met Martin’s eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way. We’re not asking you to seduce our boss or anything. We’re just explaining the situation.”

Sasha jumped. “Oh, of course we’re not suggesting anything, Martin!” she said hurriedly. “No one expects you to. Like Gerry said, just explaining.” Tim said nothing.

“What’s the Beholding?” Martin asked. “And who was this witch man?”

Tim sighed. “The Beholding is one of fourteen fear entities that sort of–watches over our world. Every fear is a result of these fourteen. The Beholding is the fear of being watched, your secrets being known. Jonah Magnus, the motherfucker, was an avatar of the Beholding a couple hundred years ago, and has kept himself alive by transferring his eyeballs into a host.”

Martin cringed. “Ew.”

Tim nodded gravely. “Ew indeed. Anyway, that host is who cursed Jon, because he refused to become an avatar willingly. So now we’re all fucked.”

Martin sat back, mind reeling. “Huh,” was all he managed to say.

Sasha nodded before patting his knee again. “I know, it’s a lot. Don’t worry yourself too much – again, it really doesn’t need to involve you.” She sounded genuine as she gave him a smile and stood. “Come on, I’m going to make tea. Maybe you can meet the others, too.”

Martin smiled gratefully at her as he stood, Gerry following while Tim threw his arm over Martin’s shoulder, his mischievous grin back. “Welcome to the family.”

Martin did end up meeting everyone. Daisy, with her muscular, scarred arms, freckled skin, shorn blonde hair, and clipped Welsh accent. Basira, with her soft smile, olive skin, and pale blue hijab matching her mug of tea. Georgie, with her friendly demeanour, skin just a shade lighter than Sasha’s, and kinked hair pulled back with a headband. Melanie, Georgie’s girlfriend, with her brown bob of wavy hair, pale skin, perpetual scowl, and sightless glass eyes. He even met the cat, The Admiral, a fat orange thing that purred like an earthquake in a blender when scratched behind the ear just right.

Over the next few days, Martin helped where he could, retrieving files for Sasha that were too high for her to reach, helping Basira sort through old papers and journals in the castle’s library, giving Georgie a hand with cooking. He even had some lively discussions with Gerry about books they’d both read.

Martin also learned everyone’s tea preferences, and would occasionally bring people piping hot mugs while they worked or relaxed. If he was going to be staying here, he was determined to be helpful.

That left one person he hadn’t met yet – the reclusive Archivist. Jonathan Sims. The cursed man, the man someone had to fall in love with in order to free everyone in the castle.

Everyone except Martin.

He nearly scoffed at the whole situation. It sounded right out of a fairy tale. He wondered what being an avatar entailed. Could Jonathan Sims see everything? Hear everything?

“Essentially, yes.”

The unfamiliar voice behind him – posh, deep, and smooth – made Martin jump, spilling piping hot tea over the rim of his mug and splashing his hand, causing him to hiss in pain. He whipped around, clutching his hand, to see who had spoken, and he nearly crashed into the counter.

Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was a frail man, with brown skin covered in circular scars. The man was short, the top of his head perhaps reaching up to Martin’s nose. He had a mottled burn scar covering one hand, and a line at his throat as though he’d been held at knifepoint. He had long, wavy black hair that was streaked through with gray, which he’d put in a bun on top of his head. He was dressed in a collared shirt and jumper, and a pair of glasses perched at the end of his nose.

For a moment, Martin simply stared, speechless. “I–what?”

The man walked over to him, eyes never leaving Martin’s face. Martin’s neck prickled, like he was being watched. “You were wondering if I, Jonathan Sims, can see everything, hear everything. Because I’ve been turned into an avatar of the Beholding. And the answer, essentially, is yes.”

It took Martin half a minute of gawking at this man before he could answer. “You can read my mind?”

“For the most part. I tend to stay out of people’s heads – it’s a bit of a privacy issue. But you’re new, and I was curious. Martin Blackwood, was it?”

Martin blinked. “Yeah, I– could you not do that? Look in my head? Privacy issue and all.”

Jonathan nodded. “Of course. I apologize, I should have mentioned it before. Also, you can just call me Jon.”

Martin nodded slowly. “Okay, Jon,” he said. Jon looked up at him, an amused smile quirking his lips upward. Martin realized with horror that he’d said Jon’s name just for the sake of saying it. He fumbled for something to say. “Would you like some tea?”

Jon looked up at him for a moment before nodding. “That would be nice.”

_Of course,_ Martin thought. _Of course the reclusive guy that needs someone to fall in love with him is exactly my type. Of course he’s adorable and good looking. God has cursed my hubris._

Martin tried to chase the thoughts out of his head as he got to making Jon a cup of tea, but it was no use. He was in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read chapter 1! I hope you enjoy the rest of this shameless joy writing spree


	3. A Whole New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin gets to know the Archivist, and a friendly face shows up at the castle.

It was an oddly sunny morning while Martin climbed the carpeted stairs of the castle, mug of tea in hand. The whole castle smelled like wood and polish, and sunlight filtered through the windows as Martin made his way to the office he’d been told was Jon’s.

Martin had been living at the castle about a week, spending time with everyone and becoming friendly with all of them. Sasha liked to come fetch him to explore the library, which was so massive even she didn’t know all that was in there, and Tim liked to join Martin when he was in the kitchen making tea for everyone, sometimes bumping his hip with Martin’s or throwing his arm around his shoulders. At first Martin had shied away from him, not used to this sort of casual affection, but he eventually learned to loosen up, sometimes even initiating the hip bumps or shoulder touches. It was nice, being around people he could have these sorts of casual interactions with.

One night, Sasha had dug into the liquor cabinet and declared that they were all going to play never have I ever with alcohol. Everyone but Jon gathered in front of the fireplace, each with a cup and several bottles between the group of them. Unsurprisingly, Tim and Gerry had had the most to drink before the end of the first hour, with Georgie trailing not far behind them.

Daisy had raised her glass at one point, declaring, “I have one for our lovely Jon, even though he’s not here but I need to desecrate his image a little.”

Georgie flicked up her eyebrows. “Bet. Remember, I dated him in university so I’ve probably got the most dirt on the man.” Her eyes glinted with mischief.

“You guys dated?” Martin asked, already a little tipsy despite the little he’d had. Despite his size, he was cursed to be a lightweight.

Georgie nodded. “It was a long time ago.”

“And that’s not enough to break the curse on this place?”

Georgie shook her head, smiling ruefully. “Too long ago. By the time we all ended up here, we didn’t even remotely see each other that way anymore. Now we’re good friends.”

Martin nodded as Daisy cleared her throat. “Georgie, while I appreciate that your smooching Sims probably gave you some good stories, this one is going to shock even you.” She paused for dramatic effect as everyone leaned in, curious to hear what it was she had to say. “Never have I ever tried to suck my own dick!”

The room erupted into shouts and shrieks of shock and disbelief.

“No way! He would never–“

“I can’t believe that–“

“Jonathan Sims? _Our_ Jonathan Sims did that? I–“

“Jon would _not_ –“

“And even if he did, he would rather _die_ than tell anyone ”

Daisy sat back, smirking in satisfaction as she took a sip of her beer. “Told you you’d be shocked.”

Sasha turned to the blonde, looking disbelieving. “Why on God’s green Earth would he do that?” she demanded. “And why would he tell you?”

Daisy smirked devilishly, and Basira rolled her eyes at the expression. “Because he’s missing two ribs, and wouldn’t you try it if you were missing two ribs? As to why he told me, he was drunk.”

Martin was taken aback. “Jon’s missing two ribs?”

Georgie looked at him sympathetically. “I forgot you’re new here. He gave two of his ribs to an avatar of the Flesh so that he could save Daisy here from the Buried.” At Martin’s confused blink, Georgie patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s a lot to take in, but I’m sure you’ll learn the story bit by bit.”

“Considering the fact that Jon saved you, I’m surprised you’re betraying his confidence right now,” Basira chided, and Daisy grinned.

“Well, that’s what he gets. It’s a weird thing to do.”

Tim gave a wicked grin, nudging Sasha. “This is going to be fun blackmail material.”

Now, Martin blushed at the memory, pushing the mental image of Daisy’s words from his mind. _Get your mind out the gutter, Martin. Last thing you need is to pine over him with_ that _unhelpful tidbit in your head_.

Once he reached Jon’s office, he knocked twice before he heard a soft baritone voice say, “Come in.” Martin pushed open the door and saw Jon hunched over a desk with an old-fashioned tape recorder and several stacks of papers set up in front of him. He looked up as Martin entered, giving him a tired smile. “Oh, Martin. Thank you, you can set it down right here.”

Martin tried to stop his heart from sputtering over how Jon said his name – he said it with care, drawing out the syllables, pronouncing it “mah-tin.” Martin set the mug on the table, and Jon nodded. He was dressed in a different jumper, this one a pale blue, and he was stretching out his fingers as though they ached. The sunlight caused some lighter highlights in Jon’s dark hair to almost shine, and Martin resisted the urge to run a strand between his fingers. _Get it together, Martin. You did your job, now go help Sasha or something._

But, looking at the hunched, isolated shape of the Archivist, something in Martin’s chest tightened. He couldn’t just leave him here. Even if he wasn’t the one who would break the curse, he could at least make sure Jon didn’t whither away in front of him.

“Would you like to take a walk with me?” Martin blurted out, and Jon looked up at him in surprise. He looked perhaps a bit irritated, or maybe that was just exhaustion. Martin barrelled on. “It’s nice outside for once, no rain or fog and, well, I noticed the gardens when I first arrived, so I wondered if you, um, wanted to take a walk through the gardens with me. Right now.”

Jon blinked. “Couldn’t you ask one of the others to go with you? I’m sure Tim would be more than happy–“

“Well, yes,” Martin interrupted. “But I’d like to talk a walk with you. If that’s okay.”

“You hardly know me.”

“So let me get to know you.”

Jon seemed to study him for a moment before sighing and pushing his chair back, standing and stretching. Martin could hear a couple joints pop from across the room, and he winced. “Very well.”

Martin gave him a smile, and Jon hesitated a moment before reluctantly offering one back.

Why did he seem so reluctant to believe someone could care for him?

The sun warmed Martin’s skin as he and Jon made their way through the gardens. They were even more beautiful in the daylight than they had been that foggy night Martin had arrived at the castle, the roses bright and vibrant and a line of sunflowers along the stone mosaic path that twisted between different patches and types of trees and flowers. As they walked, Martin asked Jon questions and learned more about him – his parents had died when he was young, he was raised by his grandmother, he’d studied at Oxford which was where he’d met Georgie, had lived in London for a while before–

Well. Before whatever this was.

Martin also learned that he preferred cats over dogs, and that he and Georgie shared ownership of The Admiral. He learned that his favourite tea was Earl Grey with milk and one sugar, information that Martin stored away in his brain for later. He learned that Jon loved to read, but he read very particular books. When he named a book that Martin had also read, the two of them went on long-winded conversations about them.

Jon also asked Martin questions. Martin told him what he was comfortable sharing: he’d grown up in London, but moved after his dad left and he and his mom could no longer afford their flat. Martin worked and took care of his mother after she got sick, making sure she always had what she needed.

“And she repaid you by abandoning you in a creepy old castle with a bunch of creepy strangers.” It wasn’t a question.

Martin sighed. “She’s just been through a lot, you know?” Jon regarded him for a moment. “Please don’t look in my head.”

Jon winced. “I’m not, I promise. I just – I’m trying to understand why you’re defending her. You did so much, gave up so much. Did you even get to finish school when you left London?”

It was Martin’s turn to wince. After learning Jon was an academic, he felt embarrassed by his own lack of formal education. “Ah–no. No school in my town. I sort of got by on my own, learning what I could from what books I could find. Phil was always going out of his way to get new books for me, since I was always reading every single book he had in stock in his library. That’s when I started reading to the kids, actually. I wanted to make sure that they all knew the joys of reading.” He smiled, before he remembered. “They’re probably wondering where I am.”

When he looked over at Jon, he noticed the other man’s ears were red and he was staring at the ground ahead of them. “Jon? Are you alright?”

Jon nodded briskly. “Quite. I just– hm.” He paused, before turning to Martin. “You do know that you don’t have to stay here, right?”

Martin blinked. “Of course I know that, Jon. I’m staying because I want to.”

Jon hummed. “I just, I know it can’t be a pleasant situation. But you aren’t trapped here. That at least isn’t my fault.”

Martin narrowed his eyes. “From what I heard from the others, none of this is your fault. It was that guy – Jonah.” Jon pursed his lips at the mention of the name. “They don’t blame you. Well,” Martin paused. “Except maybe Melanie.”

Jon nodded. “Melanie has, ah, never quite forgiven me for what happened. I can’t entirely blame her, mind you. I’m the reason she lost her eyes.”

Before Martin could ask, he noticed someone making their way towards them. As the person got closer, he realized it was Daisy. Her eyes were fixed on Martin. “There’s a kid here. Asking to see you.”

As Martin made his way back towards the front of the castle, Daisy and Jon following behind him, his heart pounded. Which one of the town kids was it? How had they made it all the way here? Had something happened to his mother, to another kid, to someone else in town?

He noticed Sasha and Tim first – Sasha was crouched on one knee, consoling a young boy that Martin immediately recognized as Jack. Tim stood behind her, an expression of concern etched onto his face. Martin called out to Jack, and the little boy immediately turned and started running – Martin crouched and caught the boy in his arms as Jack sobbed into his jumper.

“Mr. Martin,” he blubbered, scrawny arms wrapped around Martin’s shoulders. “I thought you died, Mr. Martin – when you didn’t come to the well I thought something happened, then Peter and Elias and your mum started telling everyone that you’d died and, and and.” Jack’s words were cut off as he continued to sob into Martin’s chest.

Martin’s eyes narrowed. His mum telling everyone he was dead made sense, but Peter Lukas and Elias Bouchard? What was in it for them? When he’d left town, those two had been between divorces once again, and the entire town knew about it. He knew neither of them liked him, from some snide comments Martin wasn’t proud of years ago, but why would they help his mother spread this rumour?

He noticed that Jack was wearing a bag on his back. “What’s in the bag, little one?” Martin asked gently.

Jack sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve and releasing Martin, though not moving far. “Phil gave me one of the new books he got, so I wanted to bring it to you to read.”

Martin smiled as he stood, taking the little boy’s hand and leading him inside. The others followed, curious and maybe a little confused. Martin guided Jack to the sofa, where the boy sat, still wiping tears from his eyes. Tim stood in front of him, Jon off to the side as Martin took a seat next to the boy as he pulled the book out of his bag. The title was written in large writing across the front, and as soon as he saw it, Martin felt dread pool in his stomach.

_A Guest for Mr. Spider._

He heard a choked noise, and looked up to see Jon staring at the book, fear written all over his normally serene face. Before anyone could react, Tim was grabbing the book and tossing it into the fire. Jack let out a shocked wail as the book went up in flames.

“Jon? Jon, are you okay?” Daisy had made her way over and was gripping Jon by the arms – the Archivist was shaking uncontrollably.

Tim turned to Martin, who was staring at Jon in shock. “Where the fuck did the kid get a Leitner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love on chapters 1&2! I have up to chapter 8 written at the moment so I'll sort of be posting them when I get the chance.


	4. When Will My Life Begin?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack learns the gravity of the book he'd brought, and Martin makes decisions about what to do about the curse.

Martin expected Jack to weep at the loss of the book, but instead he was staring at Jon in bewilderment. “Um, sir?” he asked tentatively. Jon didn’t look up, but Daisy and Tim both fixed the little boy with their stares, causing him to shrink into Martin’s side. “I’m sorry sir. I don’t know what’s wrong but I’m sorry.”

Martin frowned. “Actually, an explanation would be nice so that a child doesn’t think he did something wrong when you threw his book into a fire.” His voice came out sharper than he’d intended, but Jack gave him a weak smile.

Jon finally raised his head, his face pale and drawn as he beheld Martin and Jack. “Jack I–I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. I apologize for the book but– you must understand, that, those, the–“ he broke off, tugging at his hair.

“Leitner books are very dangerous,” Tim explained, kneeling in front of Jack to be able to look the boy in the eye. “They were collected by Jurgen Leitner, and kept in his library for years. We’re not entirely sure how he got a hold of most of them, or what happens exactly when someone reads them, but it isn’t good.” Tim cast a glance over his shoulder at the shivering Archivist. “Jon’s the only one of us who’s encountered one.”

Jon’s eyes were dark. “Jurgen Leitner toyed with forces beyond his control, fancying himself a jailer of things he couldn’t even conceptualize. He had a library where he held books marked by the Entities, books gripped by the forces of evil. The library burned to the ground in the nineties, of course, but the books have–have–have ruined more lives that can be counted.” Jon’s shuddering had resumed, so violent his teeth were chattering. Daisy was rubbing his arms. “I watched a boy get eaten by a spider after reading the book. Knock knock. Mr. Spider wants another guest for dinner. That guest should have been me.”

“You were a child, Jon,” Daisy told him. “What would you have done? Died in his place? Come on now, you’re here now so there’s no use moping over what happened three decades ago.”

Jon stared at Jack, who was staring back at him, one eye peeking out behind Martin’s back. “Did you read it?” Jack shook his head, and Jon signed with relief, seeming more relaxed. “Good. Nothing good has ever come from a Leitner.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Phil mentioned he got several books from Leitner.” It took him a moment to register that Daisy, Jon, and Tim were staring at him. “What?”

“When did he say this?” Tim asked warily.

Martin scratched the top of his head, his ginger curls bouncing over his forehead. “I dunno, last week? The day I came looking for my mum: I ran into Phil that morning and he mentioned it. Why?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Leitner was murdered over a year ago. Beaten to death with a pipe.” At this, Martin turned and covered Jack’s ears with his hands. “We don’t know exactly who it was, but we assume Jonah Magnus was responsible. Especially since I was promptly framed for the murder.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Then how did he get the books?”

“I may be able to answer that.”

Everyone turned to see Gerry standing at the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed over his thin chest. He had a far-away expression on his face as he observed the five of them. “Jon isn’t the only one who’s encountered a Leitner.”

Daisy regarded him quizzically. “You?”

Gerry nodded. “My mother was an, ah, _interesting_ personality. Had quite the penchant for murder, which didn’t exactly translate the greatest when it comes to raising a kid. Was also ridiculously obsessed with those _fucking_ Leitners. Tried to rope me into helping her do some sort of ritual with them, and when I refused, she carted me up here. Happened to be here when Mr. Motherfucker Magnus cursed the lot of us.” Jon cringed at that. “Get over yourself, Sims. It’s not your fault.”

Martin watched as Jon wrung his hands together. “Yes, technically, it isn’t my fault, but I feel at least partially responsible. If I’d simply gone along with what he wanted–“

“You’d currently be his servant,” Daisy interrupted. “Face it, Sims, you were trapped between a rock and a hard place.”

Jon slumped forward, his head hanging and his hands in his lap. Daisy’s hand rested on his shoulder. His greying hair hung in his face, shielding it like a curtain, but Martin could imagine the anguish hidden behind it. Jon really thought it was his fault that all these people were trapped here. No wonder he was so insistent that Martin didn’t have to stay – he couldn’t bear to trap another person here. Martin’s heart ached for the Archivist – despite the sunken eyes and grey hairs, he was someone who had been tormented, trapped too young in a world that did not understand the word _kindness_. It was a world of pain, of fear, of selfishness and power.

Lost in his thoughts, Martin hadn’t noticed when Jack slipped out from behind him, stepping tentatively closer to Jon. Tim exchanged a look with Martin as the little boy reached over and took Jon’s face in his hands. The Archivist looked up in surprise as the young boy looked into his eyes. “Mr. Sims, it’s okay. I’m sorry for bringing the book here. I’ll go and find Phil and tell him to toss the rest they got from Leitner.” He offered the older man an ernest smile. “It will be alright, sir.”

Jon stared for a moment before tentatively smiling back. “I– yes, thank you, Jack. You ought to tell Phil to burn them, and please, do not ever read them.”

Jack nodded vigorously. “I won’t!” Satisfied he’d helped cheer the Archivist up, Jack walked back to Martin. “We can go back to town together! You can talk to Phil, and we can all burn them! We can invite Rosie, and Cindy and Snow and–“

“Wait,” Martin interrupted. He lowered himself to his knees so he could look up at Jack. “I– I can’t go back just yet.” Jack’s face twisted in confusion, and Martin wondered what to tell him. He couldn’t say that his mother no longer wanted him – Jack was just a child, he didn’t need to know that. “These people need me here. We have monsters to defeat. But, to defeat them, we need to make sure no one knows what we’re doing. So, if Mum, or Elias or Peter tell people I’m dead, you can’t correct them. It can be our little secret, okay?”

Jack seemed to contemplate this. “You’re going to be a hero? A hero who defeats the monsters?”

Martin smiled. “Yeah, we’re all going to be heroes. You’ll be a hero too, if you just do this for me, okay?”

Jack’s face split into a toothy grin. “Mr. Martin, when you defeat the monsters, I’m going to write my own book! It’ll be about you defeating all the big bad, and I’ll be your trusty sidekick keeping your secret! And I can read it to all the other kids!”

“I’m sure it’ll be a fantastic book.”

Martin gripped Jack into a tight hug, the boy grinning against his jumper. _I wish I really could be the hero,_ he thought to himself. Over Jack’s shoulder, he noticed Tim furiously wiping his eyes, trying to muffle his sniffles. Martin shot him a grin and Tim stuck his tongue out. Once Jack let go, Martin stood and took his hand. “Let’s get you home.”

Jack was less scared of Michael and Helen than Martin had expected – or maybe he was simply trying to hide his fear in a manner befitting a supposed hero’s trusty sidekick. Michael, for his part, kept his hands behind his back, hiding his inhumanly long fingers. Helen spared no such curtesy, but that was to be expected. Martin waved as Jack stepped through the yellow door, promising to see him soon.

He hoped that wasn’t a lie.

“Cute kid,” Helen mused. “He yours?”

“I–what? Of course not, he’s just a kid in town. How old do you think I am?”

Helen tsked. “No need to get so defensive, boy. Lots of people have kids young. Though that’s probably not the real reason you’re so shocked, hmmm?”

Martin shrunk away from her. “And what would that reason be?” He regretted the challenge the moment it left his lips, and Helen grinned wider.

“Oh, leave him be, Helen,” Michael chastised her, and she pouted dramatically. “How’s our Archivist doing?” he asked, a cheerful lilt seeping into his voice. “Still his melodramatic old self?”

“He’s–uh–yeah? He’s fine? I think?” Martin stuttered. He wasn’t sure exactly how much Jon would want him to tell these two. “I mean you could, I dunno, ask him yourself?”

Helen chuckled. “We could, we could, though he avoids coming down here. Can’t imagine why,” she mused.

Michael rolled his eyes. “You could always visit him, Helen. I do.” Michael shrugged with a grin.

“Yes, we know how much you love our little Archivist. Perhaps this one will join you, hmmm?” She leaned down to be eye level with Martin, wiggling her eyebrows.

Heat rushed to Martin’s face as he sputtered. “I–what–I–don’t–I”

“Oh, leave the poor boy alone, Helen,” said Michael. “Can’t force him to fall in love with our Jon, that wouldn’t break the spell.”

“Oh, would you two lay off!” Martin shouted. “I’m not going to be the one to break the spell, so just leave it, okay?”

“Ooh, we’ve angered him, Michael,” Helen purred. “He’s oh-so-red, Michael! Look at his cute little round face all blushing!”

“Sod off!” Martin shouted, his voice echoing off the walls and repeating back to him. “I’m not your little plaything just because I’m not trapped here, and I’m not going to fall in love with Jon just because _you_ told me to!” With that, he turned and marched his way up the stairs, his face burning and sweat beginning to paste his shirt to his skin. His mind spun – he didn’t _know_ what his feelings for Jon were yet, and Helen pushing him wasn’t going to help him figure it out.

Martin emerged, his hair once again plastered to his head and his pale, freckled face definitely the colour of a ripe tomato, rage still seeping out of his system as he spotted Daisy, Tim and Gerry, all of whom were in the living room and glancing at him awkwardly. Jon, notably, was gone.

“Did Jack get home alright?” Gerry asked.

Martin shrugged. “I assume so? He went through Helen’s door, so I guess he did, yeah.”

Gerry nodded. “That’s good.” Tim and Daisy weren’t meeting his eyes.

Martin looked between the three of them. “What’s going on? Something I’m not privy to?”

Tim scratched the back of his neck. “Well, ah, noise from the basement sort of, well, carries up here.”

“We heard everything you said,” Daisy said bluntly.

Martin’s brain finally connected the pieces. “Ah,” was all he managed to say. “Well, it’s true.”

“We know, Martin,” Daisy said, giving him what was probably meant to be a smile but looked more like a grimace. “No one’s expecting you to free us. You can’t force yourself to fall in love with someone.”

Martin nodded slowly. “I–I’m going to walk around. Clear my head.” When he got no response, he slipped out of the room and began his walk around the castle. Daisy’s words rang in his head: _No one’s expecting you to free us_. He knew she’d meant to sound comforting, but Martin couldn’t help but feel like there was an accusation hidden in there somewhere. He knew he couldn’t force himself to fall in love with someone. He knew he’d only been there a week, but he couldn’t deny the squeezing of his heart when he saw the Archivist. He wanted to take care of Jon, wanted to help him however he could. He knew he wasn’t responsible for any of this.

So why did his words to Helen feel like a lie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's commented and read this AU, what started off as a mini project to get some writing practice has turned into way more than that!  
> The story is officially done and written, so expect more soon


	5. Be Our Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Assistants drag their boss outside for an old fashioned snowball fight, and Martin discovers something he was never meant to see – and that's why no one goes to the West Wing

Martin didn’t much like being forced awake, especially by his curtains being shoved open and Tim laughing maniacally as he yanked off Martin’s blanket. “Martin! Martin look, it’s snowing!”

Martin grumbled, turning over and burying his face in his pillow. “Fuck off, Tim,” he muttered.

Tim, however, did not fuck off. Instead, he grabbed Martin’s arm, trying to pull the larger man out of bed. “Martin, come on! It hardly snows like this around here, we’re all going to build snowmen in the garden!”

Martin swatted Tim away as the other man danced away, laughing. “Fine, fine, I’m coming,” he grunted, and Tim walked away victorious.

“You’d better be!”

Martin shielded his eyes from the light pouring in from his now-open window. It felt too early in the year for snow, though as he stood up, stifling a yawn into the arm of his shirt, he noticed Tim was right – it was practically a blizzard outside, and it rarely ever snowed like this. _Maybe something good could come of climate change, just this once_ , Martin thought ruefully as he changed into thick pants and a dark red jumper, throwing on a coat, hat and gloves.

He turned around and began to make his way downstairs. His room in the castle was large, larger, maybe, than his and his mum’s house back in town. It had a desk, where Martin had spent several nights sitting and writing poetry until his wrist ached, a wardrobe stocked with clothes, some of which fit Martin, some of which was a bit big but, well, they hadn’t exactly been expecting him so any clothing was a good thing. It also had perhaps the largest bed Martin had ever seen in his life, as well as windows and glass doors leading to a balcony.

Sometimes he’d stand on the balcony and watch the garden – occasionally Georgie and Melanie would walk through, sometimes Basira would water the flowers, or Daisy would sit by the tree by the gates and stare into the forest. Occasionally The Admiral would strut his way between the flowers, his round orange form disappearing a moment later, his attention caught on something pretty.

As Martin made his way down the hall, he heard a familiar voice coming from a room to his right. He paused – he knew he shouldn’t listen in, but his curiosity was peaked, and he found himself gravitating towards the door as that familiar deep voice seemed to be speaking to nobody.

“Mrs. Kim does not fight, though she screams and screams and screams as all her fears are realized. Jillian Smith tries to smile as she watches her neighbour burn, but the fungus is too thick around her lips, and her face no longer moves.

“As the flames consume the rest of Mrs. Kim in thick and acrid smoke, the mold reaches the bones of Jillian Smith, and she _blooms_.

“In a moment she is swollen, bloated, bursting into a cloud of violet spores that envelop the green and those who dwell there, embracing them in a rot that long since seeped into the soil of this blighted land.”

Martin didn’t realize he was shaking until he heard Jon break off and let out a long, deep sigh before saying softly, “Statement ends.” Martin let out an exhale of his own – what _was_ that? Was that some sort of messed up story?

Before he could think better of it, Martin’s hand was at the doorknob and he was pushing the door open into a bedroom similar to his own, though decorated decidedly differently, with lighter wallpaper and shelves upon shelves of books and boxes filled with loose papers. And, sitting upon the large bed covered by dark sheets was Jon, hair a mess in a halo around his head, his eyes drooping. He was wearing a T-shirt much too big for his bony frame, one scarred shoulder poking out from the neck hole, and a pair of grey sweatpants. Martin immediately felt his face heating, especially as Jon’s eyes widened when he noticed him standing stupidly in the doorway, bundled up like a snowman.

“Ah, I didn’t–hm–did you hear, uh, anything?”

Martin debated lying, saying he hadn’t heard anything, before sighing. “Yeah, I–um. I heard you talking? It sounded like you were talking to yourself.”

Jon nodded towards the old-looking tape recorder that was resting at his feet. “Yes, I– I suppose it’s a side effect of being tied to the Beholding. It gets hungry, you see. And if I do not feed it, well, it begins to feed on me.” Jon cleared his throat, gripping the paper in his hands tighter.

“Feed it?” Martin asked tentatively. “What– what exactly are you feeding it?” He dared another step into the room, moving to stand at the foot of the bed. Jon looked up at him, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and Martin ached to brush it behind his ear.

“It feeds on human fear. These statements, I have to record them for it. It uses me as a vessel for the fear, in a way.” Jon gave him a rueful smile as Martin sank down on the end of the bed. “I suppose it’s another thing making me a monster.” His eyes looked painfully sad.

“Jon,” Martin said, reaching out before his brain could catch up and taking one of Jon’s hands in his. It was surprisingly warm, and it was dwarfed in Martin’s. “You’re not a monster.”

Jon pursed his lips. “Aren’t I, though? I can see things no human should be able to see, know things no human should know. I thirst for human fear like it’s water. I–I don’t even know if I’m mortal anymore. Tell me, Martin, do those things seem human to you?” He took a rattling breath, squeezing Martin’s hand.

Martin looked at Jon. “Look, I–I can’t say I understand what’s going on. I can’t even begin to comprehend what you’re going through. But this isn’t your fault, got it? None of this is your fault. So you’ve got some fear god breathing down your neck and making you do things you hate. But that isn’t _you_ , Jon.”

“And how do you know that? You’ve been here a month and a half, how can you know that?”

“Because I– look, I know I haven’t been here long, but I’m a keen observer. The Beholding may want human fear, but Jon Sims wants Earl Grey tea with milk and one sugar. He likes to walk in the garden with me and pick up The Admiral on his way out. He can talk to me about books we’ve both read for hours and can listen to me talk his ear off about different stories even if he’s never read them. The real human person named Jonathan Sims can have a quiet conversation with Georgie over tea, or help Sasha organize the library, or play along with Tim’s jokes, play cards with Basira and make dinner with Melanie. I know you’re scared, Jon, but it really doesn’t take that long to know a person. And I know you. The real, human you. And we love you for it.”

Jon regarded Martin for a moment, seeming to judge his sincerity before a small, genuine smile appeared on his face. He ducked his head, hair acting as a curtain once again to shield his feelings from the world. “Thank you, Martin. I–I suppose I never thought of it that way.”

Martin cursed his heart for jumping at Jon saying his name again. _It’s just so cute,_ he thought helplessly. _Mah-tin._ “I’m not surprised. Most people don’t. But it’s true. I meant every word.”

Jon peeked up at him, brushing his hair out of his face with his free hand. His cheeks were pink against his brown skin, his scarred hand tucking a wave of dark hair behind his ear. “I–I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Also, do you write? Because that was quite the speech.”

It was Martin’s turn to go pink. “Oh, ah, not really? I mean, I’ve written some poetry, but nothing really, ah, worth sharing?” Oh god, why had he said that? Why had he told Jon he wrote _poetry_ of all things? He’d think he was–

“Well, I’d love to read it,” Jon said, his voice soft. “If you’d let me.”

Martin, despite himself, nodded. “Yeah.”

Jon seemed to finally register Martin’s clothing. “Going outside?”

“Yeah, Tim made me get up. You should come along – everyone’s making snowmen.”

“I really don’t think I should–“

Before Jon could finish his protest, Martin grabbed his hand and pulled him up, earning him a shout of surprise. “Yeah, you definitely should. It’s something humans do, after all.” He released Jon and made his way to the door. He turned to find the Archivist pulling his hair into a bun, watching him leave. When he noticed Martin noticing, his cheeks darkened in colour. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Daisy, that’s cheating!”

“It’s called using my resources, Martin!” Daisy shouted from the top of the tree as she hurled lumps of snow down at him. Martin yelped as a lump fell down the back of his coat, freezing water running down his spine.

The castle inhabitants had given up on building snowmen the moment where Melanie had pelted Georgie in the face with a massive snowball, with impressive aim considering she couldn’t see. Everyone had erupted into peels of laughter, until Georgie had thrown a snowball right at Tim’s head. Thus, the war had begun.

After Daisy’s unfair assault, Martin had run and taken refuge behind a rosebush, prepping a snowball and waiting for the right moment to strike. Adrenaline pumped through him, and his face hurt both from the cold and from smiling – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun.

After a point, Martin got bored of waiting, so he decided to straighten up and throw his snowball at the first person he saw. Standing for only a second, he threw it at the back of Sasha’s head before ducking out of sight again. He heard her shriek in shock, and Martin braced himself for her revenge before he heard Basira shout in surprise, “Jon?”

Martin immediately stood up and was rewarded with a snowball to the face. Sputtering, he beheld Sasha standing on the other side of the bush, hands on her hips. He shot her an apologetic grin as she smacked his arm, muttering “traitor.”

Per Basira’s greeting, the Archivist stood on the path, wearing only a jumper, pants, and boots. His hair was half-up in a bun, and he had his arms crossed over his chest, breath fogging in front of him.

“Hey, Boss!” Tim shouted, a moment before a snowball hit Jon right in the head. Tim immediately sprinted over to Martin and Sasha, grabbing Martin by the shoulders and shoving him towards Jon.

Jon had simply frozen, snow drooping onto his face. Martin wondered whether Tim should fear for his life when Jon leaned down, scooped up an armful of snow, and launched it at Basira.

Shrieks of laughter from everyone followed suit as Jon joined the snowball war. Daisy ended up dumping an armful of snow on his head, to which he responded by tripping her into a snowbank. Georgie shoved a snowball down his jumper, and he smashed one over her head. Martin watched as Jon laughed along with everyone, and it struck him that he’d never heard the Archivist laugh before. It was a beautiful sound, rich and deep and soothing. It warmed something in Martin’s chest, seeing Jon simply have fun with the rest of them.

“Gotcha!” he heard Tim shout from behind him, a moment before a massive pile of snow was being dumped on his head. Martin let out a high pitched squeak as he smacked it away, shoving at Tim as he taunted, “Pay attention, Lover Boy!”

Martin pushed Tim’s chest, causing him to lose balance, but not before he grabbed hold of Martin’s coat, pulling him down onto his chest. Tim grabbed a handful of snow and proceeded to rub it into Martin’s hair as Martin shouted and fought to free himself from the other man’s grasp. His chest hurt from laughing, and he eventually gave up, collapsing onto Tim’s chest as he laughed. “You’re a bastard,” Martin managed to wheeze.

Tim gave him a shit eating grin as he shoved Martin unceremoniously onto his side, sitting up and brushing snow from his coat. “I know,” he said with a wink.

Martin rolled his eyes and sat up, looking around the garden. He saw Jon watching them, but once Martin met his eyes he quickly looked away, his smile fading.

Eventually, Sasha announced that she was making hot cocoa, and everyone headed inside to sit by the fire and each nurse a mug of piping hot chocolate. Martin took a seat next to Jon, sitting just close enough that the sleeves of their jumpers could touch. After a while, Jon leaned ever so slightly closer, brushing his arm against Martin’s, and Martin wished desperately he could ignore the electricity that came from where he and Jon touched, and the butterflies making their home in his stomach.

The days had gone back to foggy once the snow stopped, a fact that Martin resented. He missed the snow already – at least it wasn't this depressing.

Martin cradled the mug of Earl Grey tea in his hands as he walked through the castle, searching for Jon. He wasn’t in his office, the library, or his bedroom, prompting Martin to explore some parts of the castle he’d never stepped foot in before. Nearly two months, and the place was so massive he still didn’t know where some passages led.

As he walked, he made his way through what he assumed was the entirety of the East part of the castle, with no sign of Jon. Making his way West, Martin kept his eyes out for the slim form of the Archivist. He didn’t know what was in this wing of the castle at all, and it creeped him out. It didn’t seem like the lights got much use, and the whole hallway had a musty feel to the air. Shivering, Martin pressed on, avoiding entering any of the rooms lining the hall. Jon could have been in any of them, but they all gave Martin chills.

Why had he never noticed this part of the castle before?

Eventually, the hallway ended with a set of double doors, one of which was slightly ajar. Breathing a sigh of relief, Martin nudged the door open with his elbow, entering into a cavernous room. Old furniture lay around, covered in white sheets and dust. Cobwebs lined some of the higher corners of the room, and before him were two chairs, both uncovered, both plush and ornate and massive. In front of the chairs, perched on a beautifully carved wooden coffee table, was a glass case, inside of which was a flower.

Martin approached cautiously, curiosity piqued. He set the tea down on the table and crouched by the glass case. The flower faced him, and in the centre was an iris and pupil. Many petals rested on the table, and only a few remained on the flower itself.

As if in a trance, Martin felt his hands lifting and coming to rest on the glass. It was cool to the touch, as if it hadn’t been disturbed in years., and Martin found himself lifting it ever so slightly.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

Martin jumped, already shaking as the glass fell back onto the table. Standing before him was Jon, fury written on his face. Martin scrambled backward, falling onto his back in his desperation to get away from both Jon and the flower. “I–I didn’t mean anything, I swear! I just wanted to-to-to bring you t-tea! And-and-and when I-I couldn’t find you, I-I-I came in here.”

Jon didn’t seem to hear him, he was staring intently at the flower, staring as a single petal fell from the flower and slowly, painfully slowly floated to the table. As Martin watched, a single tear leaked from the Archivist’s eyes.

“Jon–“

“Leave.”

Martin was taken back. “I-what?”

“I said leave. Leave the castle. Go home. I can’t have you here.” Martin simply sat, stunned. “GO!” Jon roared.

“No, I, I- Jon, what’s-“

“Get out,” Jon seethed. “Before I make you get out.” His voice was low, grumbling, threatening.

“Jon, I’m sorry, I swear, I didn’t mean-“

“Ceaseless watcher,” Jon chanted, a static noise entering Martin’s field of hearing as Jon’s eyes seemed to glow. “Turn your-“

“Boss, no!” Martin barely had time to blink before Jon was out of sight, a loud thump resounding from behind the table. _Tim_. Tim had tackled the Archivist before he could finish- whatever that was. “Martin, _run_.”

At the desperation in Tim’s voice, he needed no more instructions. Martin scrambled to his feet, running out of the room, down the hall, and down the stairs as fast as his stupidly clumsy legs would take him. Jon’s voice echoed in his ears, his mind as he grabbed his coat from by the door. Ignoring Sasha and Gerry’s shouts, asking him where he was going, and couldn’t he see that it was raining? Martin ignored it all as he threw open the doors and ran.

He ran through the gardens, the gardens that had been so beautiful when he’d first arrived but now were obscured by fog and rain as he reached the gates. Only the woods lay beyond them.

Martin ran, and he didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's commented and left kudos, it makes me so happy to see them :')  
> This chapter was both a joy and pain to write so join me in laughing and crying


	6. Into the Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin falls into the grasp of something cold... cold yet comforting.

Martin didn’t have the slightest clue where he was going. He didn’t care.

He was out of breath by the time he stopped running, doubling over and hacking up dry coughs as his throat begged for water after so much heavy breathing. He stumbled into a tree, catching himself before he could go sprawling to the ground, as his heart raced in his chest, threatening to break right through his ribcage and go sprinting off into the fog.

The fog was pressing into Martin from all sides, acting almost as a weighted blanket as he caught his breath. Looking around, Martin couldn’t see even a foot in front of him, the dense grey surrounding him completely. It was oddly comforting, he thought, being surrounded like this. The air was so thick it felt like he was moving through water, as though the fog were shielding him from the evils of the world outside. He could feel his fingers and toes going numb, his nose starting to run from the cold, though he wasn’t shivering. The fog almost felt pleasantly cold, a grounding force, preventing him from floating off into space. 

Martin kept walking, slower this time. He counted his steps as he went further into the woods, though he had no idea where, exactly, he was going. He knew he wasn’t wanted by Jon, nor by his mother, though that information didn’t sting as it might have mere hours ago. Instead he felt as though it was an old wound, or a bruise perhaps – something that had once hurt, but now was simply a lulling ache.

He wondered what his mother was doing now. He pictured her silhouette as she made her way through town, accompanied by Elias Bouchard and Peter Lukas. He pictured her silhouette because, as hard as he strained his mind, he couldn’t remember her face.

This fact didn’t upset him, though. After all, she’d abandoned him. He was glad she’d abandoned him, glad she’d realized that he was simply a drain on her life before he could continue fooling himself that he was helping her. 

Eventually, the fog became so dense that it felt as though it was a person, cradling Martin, holding him close. Martin sank into the embrace, leaning on nothing as he was entangled in the grey that never seemed to end. He felt as though he was being lulled into calm, and he didn’t try to fight it. He was exhausted, though from what he couldn’t quite remember.

A name came to his mind, unprompted and lingering. No, not a name, but a title. The Archivist. Who was the Archivist? Martin tried to pull pieces together of memories, wondering what this person may have looked like.

“Mah-tin…” a low, soft voice spoke into his mind.

That wasn’t his name, he thought. His name was Martin, not Mah-tin. Who even called him that? Certainly no one he knew.

Who did he know? Was there anyone? Perhaps there wasn’t. Martin felt his consciousness slipping, his will draining through his fingers as though he were trying to hold onto steam. This place was comfortable. This place wanted him. This–

“Martin?” There it was again, that voice pronouncing his name wrong. Who was it? “Martin? Martin?” The voice was panicking, and Martin shook his head. It should try lying down. It was very comfortable here. He supposed he could stay a while.

“Martin?”

Martin blinked. “Jon?” he murmured, the name finding its way to his lips. Where did he know that name. “Jon?”

“Martin!” The voice was louder now, getting closer to him. The voice of a man, deep and smooth and beautiful. A voice befitting an Archivist.

Martin’s eyes snapped open. “Jon!” he shouted, his voice hoarse as he once again broke into racking coughs. He squinted, standing. The fog pressed into him, no longer comforting, only constricting. As though trying to hold him prisoner. Martin’s breathing quickened, panic gripping his chest. Whose name had he been shouting just now?

A pair of hands were suddenly on his face, and Martin’s eyes snapped down to the face of the man they belonged to. “Martin,” he said softly, his eyes searching Martin’s face. He had beautiful eyes, earnest eyes that seemed to want to know Martin. “Martin, can you hear me?”

“I–what are you doing?” Martin found himself asking, his own voice sounding far away even to his own ears.

“Martin, look at me,” the man said, and Martin fought to get his eyes to focus. The man’s face was kind, beautiful in a gaunt sort of way. “Look at me and tell me what you see.”

“I–I see,” he paused, staring. Those eyes, eyes that could see anything, those lips that could give Martin the sweetest or the shyest of smiles, those brows that would furrow in concentration when reading a statement or listening to Martin and Gerry talk about books– “I see you, Jon.”

Relief washed over Jon’s face as Martin gave him a weak smile. Jon’s hands were still on his face, and Jon stretched up onto his toes to rest his forehead against Martins. “Thank heavens, I thought- I thought I’d lost you. Martin, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. What I did was unforgivable, and I don’t expect you to forgive me but I-I-I’m so relieved. I couldn’t lose you.”

Martin released a shaking breath. “It’s okay, Jon.” He was bone-weary, and he held his hands on Jon’s waist as Jon continued to hold his face, their noses and foreheads touching as they simply breathed for a few moments. Jon’s warm breath warmed Martin’s face, shaking off the lingering chill and making him shiver for reasons completely unrelated to the unrelenting cold of the fog around them.

“It’s not, but let’s get you back to the castle first. Unless,” he amended. “You’d rather go. I-I would understand completely if you wanted to-“

“You’re right,” Martin interrupted. “Let’s go back to the castle first. We can talk later.”

Jon paused before nodding, stepping away from Martin and letting his hands drop to his sides. “Right. Yes, let’s go.”

“Here.”

Martin looked up as Jon handed him a steaming mug of tea, which he accepted gratefully, cradling it in his hands as the feeling returned to his digits bit by bit. Jon turned, about to walk away, but Martin reached out and hooked Jon’s pinky in his. The Archivist looked down at their joint fingers, the tips of his ears bright red, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. “Stay,” Martin whispered. “I-I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Jon nodded, settling himself next to where Martin was sat on the floor in front of the couch, fireplace roaring in front of him. Martin offered him a corner of the blanket, which Jon took with a grateful smile and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Shall we, ah, talk?”

“What exactly happened out there?” Martin asked. He knew that wasn’t what Jon was talking about, but he needed answers, and if anyone would know, it would be the fear Avatar sitting next to him. “The fog, it felt, it felt safe, like a comforting cold, almost, you know?”

“Yes, I-the fog was a manifestation of the Lonely. Another one of the fears – the fear of being alone, of being forgotten, of forgetting the ones you love. It sometimes presents itself as a comfort, attempting to draw people in. You managed to resist it though, and I don’t think it managed to mark you.”

Martin contemplated that. He had forgotten people: he’d forgotten everyone at the castle, his mother, Jon. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why he’d been sought out, though – he’d been abandoned after all, and he did, deep down, fear being alone. He feared not mattering to anyone, not being able to help anyone. He feared losing the people he cared about.

“Martin, I wanted to say again how sorry I am for what happened in-in the West Wing. I should never have reacted as I did. I-I could have killed you.” Jon hung his head, seemingly unable to look Martin in the eye.

“Is that what that was? That-that chant?”

Jon cringed. “Yes. I can’t tell you how thankful I am that Tim stopped me, but that doesn’t excuse what happened. I was afraid, so afraid it would all go wrong–“ he broke off. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I am sorry.”

Martin was quiet for a moment. He considered it – Jon reciting a chant that could, in short, have ended his life. The thought weighed on his mind, though he also felt confused. “What exactly was that? The flower. Clearly it’s important.”

Jon studied his hands. “It–it marks how much time I have left.”

Martin peered at Jon. “Left?”

“Left until my time runs out. Until the curse- well, becomes permanent. If no one has.” he coughed. “Fallen in love with me by the time the last petal falls, we’re all trapped here forever. So, when I saw you lifting the glass, I-I panicked. I thought the petals would all fall at once, and we’d be more doomed than we were before. That I’d taken the last shred of hope away from everybody. So, I panicked. Reacted on a-on a terrible impulse. Although I don’t believe anyone could possibly love a monster, I can’t take that hope away from the others. Georgie, Sasha, Daisy, Tim, Basira and Melanie and Gerry, they deserve to have some hope that they’ll get out of here someday.”

Martin and Jon lapsed into silence, saying nothing for a few minutes, both contemplating. Finally, Martin spoke. “I understand.”

“No, Martin, I–“

“Jon. I understand. You panicked. Honestly I-yeah, I do feel weird about it. I can’t exactly say I’m okay with what happened. But I do understand. I really do.”

Jon nodded slowly. “I–alright.” Heaving a sigh, the Archivist stood slowly, wincing at the popping noises his joints made as he stretched. “I–I’m going to go to the library,” he said softly. “Have a good night, Martin.” There it was again. _Mah-tin_. Martin’s heart skipped.

As Jon walked away, Martin called back to him. “Jon.” The Archivist stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. “What did I tell you about being a monster?”

Jon gave him a small yet sincere smile. “Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all can have a little angst, as a treat :)


	7. Beauty and the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin confronts Jon's reclusiveness, and a boombox and fancy clothes bring the castle crew together.

Jon was avoiding him, and Martin didn’t like it.

He kept trying to get the Archivist to talk to him, bringing him tea in his room or his office, trying to coax him outside with him, but nothing worked. Jon simply gave him a small smile and refused to say much.

Finally, Martin had had enough. On a stormy evening five days after Martin’s encounter with the Lonely, not that he’d been counting or anything, Martin dug through his desk drawers, removing a small stack of papers and made his way down the hall.

Blood rushed in his ears as he marched toward Jon’s room, where he’d heard the man making a statement earlier. Now, however, there was no noise coming from the other side of the door other than the quiet sounds of footsteps. Martin knocked softly, and after a moment Jon’s voice said, “Come in.”

Martin pushed open the door. “Hi,” he said awkwardly.

Jon immediately lowered his eyes to the ground. “Ah, Martin. What-what are you doing here?”

Martin stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, holding up the papers in his hand. “I, well, a few weeks ago you asked if you could read my poetry. I mentioned I write poetry sometimes, and you asked if you could read it, and I said yes, and, well, a promise is a promise, so here I am.”

Jon seemed to contemplate this for a moment, pink colouring his cheeks as he nodded. “I- I see. Well, have a seat.”

Martin walked over to Jon’s massive bed and took a seat at the end, Jon sitting down by the pillows. The tape recorder was still sitting between them. Gesturing to it in a question, Martin reached for it once Jon nodded in approval.

“Okay, well, here goes nothing. I can’t exactly promise it will be any good, mind you, I mean it’s-I-I’m no Keats or anything, I’m just little ol’ me so don’t expect a masterpiece, or-or even something _good_ cause I really don’t know, I sort of just write them on a whim and, I, well, I wrote this one a few weeks ago, and-“

“Martin,” Jon interrupted, placing his hand over Martin’s, pink burn scar stark against his dark skin. “I’m sure it’s lovely.” And he sounded so sincere that Martin couldn’t speak for a moment over the lump in his throat.

“Right,” he said, nodding. “Right, well, here goes nothing.” Reaching over and clicking on the tape recorder, Martin began to read.

“I was not expecting this

This was so much more

You have stayed, the hungry hunters

You have locked death’s door

For all your skulking, slinking, sneering,

For all I was fearing

I was not expecting this

For you to step into the light and reveal yourself

I see you, I see the lamb you hide under the wolf’s skin

I was not expecting this, for the sharp pain of jaws

To give way to the softness beneath

You cannot hide from me any longer

Though I will try to hide from you.”

Once he was done, Martin took a shaking breath, setting the paper down and raising his eyes to meet Jon’s, only to find that Jon was already staring at him, as though transfixed. The two stayed still, Jon’s hand over Martin’s, their eyes locked together as the tape recorder kept recording. Finally, Jon cleared his throat.

“Martin, that was–that was beautiful.”

Martin laughed nervously, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. “You really think so?”

“ _Yes_ , Martin, it’s–it’s, I, I can’t even think of how to describe it.”

“Damn, it really was good, huh?”

“It was.”

They lapsed into silence again, just for a moment, before Jon squeezed Martin’s hand and Martin felt those damned butterflies in his stomach fluttering. “Why-“ Jon began, clearing his throat. “What-who-why-Ah. Why did you write that particular poem?” he asked finally.

Martin tilted his head to the side. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, trying to stifle a laugh. He knew it was risky, reading Jon _this_ particular poem, but he had his reasons. Even if it sent his heart thundering in his chest and his palms sweating.

Jon snorted. “Yes, well, I was trying to not be too self-absorbed.” He lowered his eyes, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and Martin ached to put a hand there, to hold him, to comfort him. “Is this how you see me? A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“I-well, yes. Though not in the traditional sense.”

Jon tilted his head, and Martin’s heart nearly burst at how _adorable_ it was. “How do you mean?”

“Well, I think you try to make yourself out to be worse than you really are. You insist that you’re a monster, that you feed on human fear, that you shouldn’t be around us and that you’ve doomed everyone because, who could love a monster? Except, you’re acting as though you don’t deserve any sort of love, or care, or redemption. Besides, this Jonah Magnus guy sounds a hundred times worse, and he’s not locking himself in the West Wing, insisting he’s a monster.”

Jon gave a quiet chuckle. “I suppose you’re right,” he whispered, eyes seemingly fixed on Martin’s face. “I just- I almost killed you. That night has been playing again and again in my mind, and I don’t think I could ever live with myself if I hurt you.”

Martin leaned forward slightly so Jon would have no choice but to look him in the eye. Their noses were nearly touching. “And if that isn’t proof you aren’t a monster, what is?” Jon sighed, the air moving whips of his hair into Martin’s face. “Look, I– what happened wasn’t a-a normal, ordinary mishap. I know that, and it’s not like I’m going to just, I dunno, forget it happened or anything. But you’ve barely spoken to me in _days_ and, I guess I know it’s not like it was intentional. It’s not like you sat in an evil little lair, plotting my demise.” He narrowed his eyes jokingly. “I hope.”

Jon let out a sharp laugh, and all Martin wanted was to be the cause of that laugh again. “No, can’t say that’s a pastime of mine.” Jon tilted his head slightly, and their faces were achingly close. “Martin, I– thank you. Thank you for always fighting to see the good in me. I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“It’s not a difficult fight, Jon.” Their lips were nearly brushing and Martin’s heart was pounding so loud he could hardly hear anything else. Jon’s breath was hot on his face as–

“Hey, Boss!”

Jon and Martin sprang apart, Martin standing so fast he nearly tripped over the carpet as Tim burst into Jon’s room, grinning ear to ear.

“Oh, hey, Martin, perfect,” he declared. “We’re gonna have a dance. Downstairs. Tonight. You two losers better be there.” His eyes fell on Martin, standing awkwardly, and Jon, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a tape recorder by his knee, and his face fell a little. “You alright?” he asked in a soft tone.

Jon nodded, giving Tim a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Tim.”

“Good,” Tim said as that grin returned to his face. “We’re starting in,” he paused, checking the watch on his wrist. “An hour. Be there or be square.” Backing out of the room, he gave them both finger guns, accompanied by a vocal “pew pew” as he closed the door behind him.

Martin turned, giving Jon a wry smile, which Jon returned. “Looks like we’ll be dancing tonight.

“Looks like it.” The softness in Jon’s face made Martin’s insides feel like they were liquifying.

_Digest those damn butterflies, Blackwood._

Martin had absolutely no idea what the dress code for an impromptu dance party entailed. He stood before his mirror, dressed in black dress pants that were slightly too big and needed to be held up with a belt and his favourite yellow jumper with a white collared shirt underneath. He supposed it would have to do, since he heard Sasha and Tim shouting his and Jon’s names from downstairs.

Exiting his room, he made his way down the hall and towards the stairs, adjusting the sleeve of his jumper. When he looked up, reaching the stairs, he stopped in his tracks.

Heading down the other stairs was Jon, and he looked _breathtaking_. He was wearing a suit of deep blue, with a white shirt and a gold tie. His flowing, grey streaked dark hair was loose around his face, framing it and accenting his beautiful dark eyes. When Jon looked up and noticed Martin, his mouth opened ever so slightly.

A wolf whistle from below broke them both out of the trance. Martin looked down to notice everyone gathered at the bottom of the stairs, Georgie holding a massive boombox over her head. It was Tim who had whistled, and he waved. “Hey, lovebirds, get down here!”

Martin snorted and kept going down the stairs, meeting Jon where the two directions merged into one. “You look lovely,” he murmured so only Jon could hear.

Jon smiled endearingly up at him. “So do you. Yellow looks nice on you.”

Before Martin could reply, they’d reached the dance floor and Georgie had pressed play on the boombox, a dance song with heavy bass blaring from the speakers as everyone started to jump and dance, limbs flailing to varying degrees of chaos.

Martin felt laughter bubbling up his throat as the music pumped through the room and he moved around, dancing with all of his new friends. Sasha pulled him toward her, spinning him around at arms length while they laughed together. Sasha released him mid-spin, sending him stumbling him into Gerry, who caught him with grace that made Martin blush. They jumped to the beat, despite Gerry’s halfhearted complaints that no one listened to his music recommendations.

Martin laughed as Daisy and Basira made their way over. “No one listens to My Chemical Romance at a dance party, Gerry boy,” Daisy teased, and Gerry stuck his pierced tongue out at her. Basira rolled her eyes as Daisy and Martin started shouting the lyrics to the music, jumping on the spot until Daisy shouted, “Watch this!” She leaned down, grabbed Martin around his knees, and hoisted him over her shoulder.

Martin yelped as Daisy spun him around and everyone cheered and laughed. He smacked her shoulder as she set him down, his face hurting from grinning. Everyone around him seemed to be drunk off of laughter and joy, the stupid fun of dancing with friends. Georgie was supporting Melanie, who was spinning in Georgie’s arms while Tim danced circles around Jon. For just a little while, everyone could forget the curse looming over their friends and be normal friends having a normal dance party.

Martin was out of breath by the time the loud dance music ceased, replaced with a soft instrumental tune. “Grab your partners!” Georgie called, her arms already around Melanie, Melanie’s head tucked under Georgie’s chin as the two women swayed to the music. Daisy held out a hand to Basira, and Sasha and Tim pulled Gerry towards them as they swayed, arms around each other, to the slow tune.

That left Martin and Jon.

Jon looked up at Martin shyly, and Martin’s stomach was instantly a mess of knots. He slowly held out a hand. “May I have this dance?”

Jon placed his hand in Martin’s, small and bony and warm. “You may.”

Martin pulled Jon close, hands clasped, placing one hand on Jon’s waist as Jon placed a hand on his shoulder. He pulled the Archivist along, Jon’s footing unsure, his eyes fixed on the ground. “I, ah,” Jon stammered. “I don’t exactly know how to dance.”

Martin smiled, a blush rising to his cheeks. “That’s okay. Just follow my lead.” He kept a grip on the smaller man, moving their bodies in rhythm to the music with ease, sometimes stopping to spin Jon around, keeping their hands connected at all times. As the music reached a crescendo, Martin secured an arm around Jon’s lower back and dipped him low to the ground. Jon let out a gasp of surprise, gripping two handfuls of Martin’s jumper, and Martin chuckled as Jon exhaled as he brought him back up.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” Jon breathed.

Martin shrugged, spinning Jon in a slow circle. “I sort of taught myself. I was quite the romantic as a teen, so I figured this would be a good skill to have.”

Jon gave him a small smile, his eyes soft. “I’m sure this isn’t quite what you had in mind when you pictured your dance skills coming in handy.”

Martin laughed. “Can’t say it was, no.”

Jon was quiet for a moment. “Are you disappointed?”

Martin looked down at Jon, who wasn't meeting his gaze. Ignoring his pounding heart and rushing blood, he used a finger to tilt Jon’s chin up to meet his gaze. “No, Jon. I’m not disappointed.”

Jon seemed to contemplate this, and Martin let his hand drop. After a moment, Jon stopped dancing, gripping Martin’s hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Martin followed Jon as he made his way quickly up the stairs, not pausing to see if anyone had noticed them slip off. They made their way up, to the left, toward the West Wing. Jon didn’t speak as he led Martin back to the room that housed the enchanted flower.

Martin stood in the doorway as Jon entered, taking a deep breath before turning to face Martin. “I–I know you said you wanted to stay, and your actions have shown that, but I know how much not knowing can- can hurt. So I wanted to give you ah- a chance. A chance to see your home, the people you love. Check on them. And if you decide to go back, I’d understand. I figure it’s the least you deserve, after all you’ve done for me.”

Martin gave him a soft smile. “I don’t think I’ll want to go back, Jon,” he said softly. “Though, I would like to check on Jack.”

Jon nodded, holding out his hands for Martin to take. “This won’t exactly be pleasant,” he warned, before he closed his eyes, brow furrowing in concentration.

Martin followed suit, though nothing happened for a few seconds. He was about to open his mouth to ask Jon whether it was going to work when a static noise filled his ears and pressure began to build in his ears and the back of his head. He suppressed a wince as the whining got louder and his head felt as though it was being pressed through a hydraulic press. Stars began to form behind his eyelids and the pressure builds until it all at one disappears with a _pop_. Martin’s eyes fly open and he can see down to his town.

Everything is the exact same as when he left it – the bustle died down as dark had settled hours ago. Though, there were unusual lights coming from near the well.

Peering closer, Martin realized they were torches. Hundreds of them – the whole town, by the looks of it. The whole town had gathered in a massive crowd by the well.

Why?

Martin watched as three figures stood at the front of the crowd, their backs to the well. The first, he realized with a start, was his mother, appearing healthier than he’d seen her in more than two decades. _So she really was better off without me_ , he thought. _It must be a good thing that I stayed here._

Beside his mother was the shrewd form of Elias Bouchard. He had a smile on his face that made him look like a cat that had cornered the mouse it planned to eat for dinner. Beside him was the large, white-bearded form of Peter Lukas, dangling a helpless Jack from the collar of his ratty jacket.

Martin’s stomach dropped as he beheld Peter holding onto Jack. Elias was speaking.

“We cannot live with such a threat in such a close proximity. In fact, he is probably watching us right now,” he was saying. “So we must take matters into our own hands. What do we do with monsters?”

A chorus of shouts echoed up from the crowd.

“Stake them through the heart!”

“Burn them!”

“Skin them alive!”

Elias was smiling. “We dispose of them. This monster must be disposed of, this monster that murdered Mrs. Blackwood’s son.”

Martin felt hot rage building like hot coals in his stomach. How dare she? How dare she abandon him here, then try to get their town to kill Jon to avenge him? And what were Peter and Elias getting out of this little murder spree?

Martin watched Jack, who didn’t look to be in pain. Rather, he looked furious, his eyes red and tears streaming down his face as he tried to kick at Peter Lukas. “Let me go! Mr. Martin is alive, and Mr. Sims wouldn’t hurt him! Mr. Martin is going to break the spell, I know it!”

Elias turned to the boy at that. “You must have been imagining things. Martin Blackwood was killed by the monster who goes by Jonathan Sims, and we need to avenge him. And the only way to do that is getting rid of the monster who killed him.”

“But I saw–“

“Jonathan Sims is powerful, he simply made you see what you wanted to see – Martin, and other friendly people. They weren’t real, Jack. They never were. You need to accept that.”

Martin felt himself being pulled away, and he emerged back in the West Wing, on his knees with Jon’s hands on his shoulders. “Martin? Martin, can you hear me? Martin? Martin, are you alright?”

Martin gasped, fighting to get air back into his lungs. His head pounded like it was being hit with a hammer. He looked up at Jon, at the kind man who’d let him stay, who’d given him friends and a home and a chance to get to know him, the man who he’d danced with and who’s hand he held and who he’d shown his poetry to.

“Martin? What did you see?”

Martin took a shaky breath. “They’re coming,” he said at last. “They’re coming, and they’re going to kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end approaches, as does the iconic dance and mirror scenes from Beauty and the Beast :)  
> This chapter was so much fun to write, and I hope you're all ready for some angst in the coming days.


	8. Return to the Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin returns home, and his welcome isn't quite as warm as one might expect. Jack reunites with his friends.

"I sure hope you’re not planning on leaving forever, Marto.”

“Helen, now _really_ isn’t the time.” Martin wrung his hands, his heart pounding as he forced himself to take steady breaths.

Helen rolled her eyes. “Can’t help that I’ve taken a liking to you, boy.”

“Just let him through, Helen,” Jon ground out through his teeth.

Helen rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. Go play hero. But don’t say I didn’t warn you – standing up to an angry mob is never a good idea. Especially one that’s being partially led by your mother.”

“I have to stop them. I have to help Jack. It’s my fault he’s caught up in this at all, it’s the least I can do.”

Helen tutted. “Very well, boy. Just be careful.”

Michael, standing off to the side, nodded in agreement. “We’d rather you didn’t die out there.”

Martin smiled at them as Helen’s yellow door that led to Martin’s town appeared on the wall. “Thanks, guys. I will be back, I promise.”

Before he stepped through, though, he felt Jon grab his sleeve. Turning around, he let out an _oof_ as Jon grabbed him tightly by the middle, burying his face in Martin’s shoulder. Martin slowly hugged him back, his arms engulfing the Archivist’s bony frame.

“Be safe,” Jon whispered into his jumper. “I–please.”

Martin gave Jon a squeeze of what he hoped was assurance. “I’ll be fine, Jon. I know these people, they wouldn’t hurt me.”

Jon nodded, giving Martin one more squeeze before stepping away, hiding behind his hair.

“Awwww, look at our little archivist!” Helen squealed, clapping her long-fingered hands together. “He’s so cute!”

“Be quiet, Helen,” Jon grumbled, wringing his hands in front of him. He was staring at his feet.

Martin smiled. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that final promise that he hoped beyond all hope he’d be able to keep, he stepped through the yellow door.

The first thing Martin saw once his vertigo had passed was the well, where the crowd was still standing. They all seemed to be talking amongst themselves, holding torches, bats and pitchforks. Their eyes all seemed to glimmer with a violence that made Martin shudder. Elias and Peter were talking amongst themselves, while Martin’s mother held a hand tightly around Jack’s wrist as the little boy kept trying to squirm away. Martin’s mother sat completely still, staring out at the crowd. Martin couldn’t see her face, but he could imagine it – blank with indifference, not caring that she was sentencing an innocent man to a violent death.

Jack was the first to spot Martin, and his screech caused all heads to turn to him. Jack pointed with his free hand, flailing with excitement. “Look, I told you! There he is! Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin! He’s alive, everyone! See, I told you Mr. Sims would never hurt him!”

Martin’s mother was glaring daggers at her son as he walked towards her. His stomach was in knots as he approached the woman who’d abandoned him, then tried to use him to her own selfish ends. She shook her head. “Don’t trust what you see, boy,” she warned, not releasing her grip on Jack. “The monster may have simply sent another monster who’s taken the form of Martin.”

“Let him go,” Martin demanded through clenched teeth. “He has nothing to do with this.”

Jack was still struggling to get to Martin, and Martin’s mother shrugged before letting the boy go, his own momentum nearly planting him face-first on the cobbled ground. “Fine, boy. Go to it if you care that little about your life.”

Jack didn’t pay her words any mind as he all but flew into Martin’s arms. “Mr. Martin, I’m so sorry, I know you told me not to say anything but-but-but Mr. Lukas kept asking where I’d gone that day, and how I’d gotten back, and I tried to lie, sir, but-“

“Jack,” Martin interrupted softly as he knelt on the cold ground, making himself eye-level with the child. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

Jack wiped his eyes. “I’m really happy to see you, Mr. Martin.”

Martin smiled. “I’m happy to see you too, Jack.”

“How are the others? Is Mr. Sims okay? Did you break the curse yet?”

Martin chuckled, feeling his face heating. “Not yet, no.”

“But you will, won’t you?”

“I–yes, I will.” He knew it was a stupid promise, but it didn’t feel like a lie. He stood up, taking Jack’s hand in his to have something solid to tell him that the boy was safe – nothing else was ever going to happen to him. Martin would make sure of it.

Elias was watching them, a sly grin on his face that made Martin feel like spiders were crawling under his jumper. “You’re dressed rather nicely there, Martin,” Elias mused. “What is the monster up to in that castle of his?”

Martin squared his shoulders – he wasn’t going to be intimidated by Elias Bouchard. Even if being in his line of sight made Martin want to hide behind the nearest crate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Elias’ eyebrows raised. “There is no monster.”

Elias smiled. “Come now, Martin, you can’t really believe that. Unless he’s messed with your mind, which I wouldn’t put past our Jonathan Sims.”

“My mind is perfectly sound, I’ll have you – wait a moment. How do you know his name?”

Elias’ coy smile made Martin want to smash his face into the well. “Jonathan and I have, well, let’s call it an _interesting_ history. I know him better than you could ever hope to. And I know he’s a monster. He looks into people’s heads and finds out any secret he wants, watches everyone all the time, all while feeling no remorse. Wouldn’t you call that a monster?”

“Jon doesn’t do any of that.”

“And how do you know that, hm?”

“Because I asked him not to.”

Elias laughed. “And you trust him? Do you really trust him to keep his word?”

“Yes.”

Elias looked taken aback by the surety of Martin’s answer. Martin simply stared, daring Elias to challenge him. Because Martin _did_ trust Jon. He believed Jon wasn’t looking in his head beyond their first meeting, when Martin had asked him not to. He trusted that Jon respected his privacy, no matter what. And he wasn’t going to let anyone make him question that.

It was Martin’s mother who spoke next. “Well, if that really is my boy, something’s been done to his head. He can’t be trusted, Elias. Lock him up – we’ll deal with him later.”

Martin’s stomach dropped and he struggled to wrap his head around what his mother was saying. “No, that’s-she’s lying!”

It was too late – someone was already grabbing his arms, pulling him backwards. “Who’s more likely to be lying, boy?” his mother asked quietly. “Me, or you?”

Peter Lukas had already moved, grabbing Jack’s hand and pulling him backwards as the child screamed and kicked in protest. Martin couldn’t see who had a hold of him, but he could sense that fighting was futile – whoever it was had an iron grip on his wrists as he was marched backwards. Still, Martin fought, trying to slow his assailant but making no progress as he was thrown unceremoniously into a large wagon. Jack was thrown in a moment after, and the slamming of the door and heavy turning of the lock made Martin cringe.

“Jack? Jack, are you alright?” Martin crawled over to the boy, who was sitting and rubbing his head.

He turned to look as Martin brushed his hand over the back of his head, checking for any bumps or cuts. “I hate them,” he declared, crossing his arms. “They’re stupid and they should listen to you.”

Martin huffed a laugh – Jack was perfectly fine. “Yeah,” he mused quietly. He felt drained, exhausted. He knew he should try breaking out – his weight should be enough to ram through the doors, if he went at it enough times. Assuming he didn’t dislocate his shoulder first, which was very possible. But all he felt was a weariness deep in his bones, and he could hardly will himself to move.

“Mr. Martin?” Jack asked. “Are you alright?”

Martin nodded, managing a weak smile. “I’m fine, Jack.” From outside, Martin could hear the sounds of voices shouting over each other, too garbled for him to make out any actual words. The shouting was then accompanied by the sound of many footsteps, gradually getting softer and softer until they were completely out of earshot.

Once he couldn’t hear them, Martin’s exhaustion was replaced by a shock of panic that felt like it had grabbed him by the heart and was injecting lightning into his veins. They were leaving. They were heading to the castle and they were going to kill Jon.

Scrambling up as much as he could without smacking his head on the top of the wagon he and Jack were locked in, which it turned out wasn’t very much, Martin smacked his hands against the wood. Sharp sparks of pain shot up his hands and he hissed as the door refused to give way. He kept slamming his fist into it, breathing laboriously as he prayed to nothing that he could get this door open through sheer force alone.

He didn’t know how long he kept at it. Long enough that his knuckles were purple and his fingers were split open and bleeding from the splintered wood. Long enough that he sank down, heart thundering, Jack asking him if he was okay, long enough that he was too exhausted to answer, long enough that he couldn’t muster up the strength to protest when Jack began tearing cloth off the hem of his shirt to bandage Martin’s hands.

“It’s going to be okay, Mr. Martin,” Jack was saying. “Mr. Sims is strong, he’ll be fine.”

“Jack,” Martin mumbled. “You know that you can just call me Martin, right? You don’t need to call me Mr.”

Jack shrugged. “But I respect you a lot, sir. And it feels wrong to just call someone I respect as much as you just by your Christian name.”

Martin blinked. “You respect me?”

Jack nodded vigorously. “Of course I do, Mr. Martin! You’re always reading to us kids, you’re the reason I wanna write superhero stories! And you’re always so kind, you look after us when we need you! You’re our superhero, Mr. Martin.

Martin considered this for a moment. He’d never considered what he did for the kids in town as anything extraordinary – he simply wanted to spread his love of reading to the kids, and when they’d seemed interested, he wanted to make sure they had a good time when he was reading to them. Of course he’d help when someone needed him – he’d never considered a world where he _wouldn’t_ jump at the chance to help someone.

He surveyed the bandages, and Jack’s partially-ripped tunic-length shirt which he’d ruined in order to help Martin. Despite their hopeless situation, Martin smiled. “Jack, I’m not a hero. I’m just your friend, and I think if I’m your friend, you can just call me Martin.”

Jack considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. “Okay…Martin.”

Martin held out his arms, and Jack crawled over and wrapped his little arms around Martin’s neck. “I’ll always be here for you, Jack,” Martin promised. Jack simply squeezed his neck tighter. Martin couldn’t help but laugh.

A clicking sound, along with hushed arguing, turned both their attention to the door. After a moment’s hesitation, and some more clicking and scratching, Jack crawled over and knocked on the door. “Help us! Get us out!” he shouted.

“We’re trying!” came the indignant high-pitched voice. A familiar voice.

“Rosie!” Jack cried in delight, and Martin felt hope rush through his chest. The children of the town hadn’t been dragged into the town’s murder spree, and Martin silently thanked the skies for that.

After a few more minutes of clicking, the door swung open and Martin beheld the small, confused faces of Snow, Cindy, and Rosie as they beheld him and Jack.

“Martin?” Cindy asked tentatively. “What happened? Why are you here?”

Jack clambered out of the wagon, already wrapping Rosie in a huge hug, to which she responded by shouting and pushing him away, laughing. Martin noticed she had a long, jewelled pin in her hand – that must have been how she picked the lock.

Martin scooted out after Jack, his legs aching after being contorted for what must have been hours. “That’s a long story. How did you find us?”

In response, Cindy leaned down and picked up a large, orange thing off the ground.

A familiar large, orange thing.

“The Admiral?” Martin squeaked, and the fat cat gave a loud _mrow_ , as if saying _don’t sound so surprised_. Martin barked a laugh. “That’s one resourceful cat,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head. He surveyed the kids around him – Snow, with her long black hair and kind expression; Cindy, with her stubborn set features and the massive cat in her arms; Rosie, with her short red hair and tough demeanour, even for a child. And of course, Jack, with his grin and determination and fluffy black hair. Martin sighed. “Thank you, for getting us out of there. I need to go– to go help someone.”

“We’re coming with you.”

Martin looked at Jack, who was staring up at him with his arms crossed. “It’s too dangerous for you kids. I need to do this.”

Jack, however, wasn’t backing down. “We want to come with you.”

Martin looked to the other kids – these kids, who’d always treated him like someone who deserved respect and love. Who’d always listened to the stories he told, whether they were from a book or from his own head. Who were braver than any adults in this damned town.

He sighed. “Fine. But you will hide until any fighting is over. That’s the condition, and if you disobey, I’m bringing you right back here.” All four children nodded, and Martin wondered when he’d become a mother duck. Sighing, he turned, searching for the way into the woods that would take him back to the castle.

Take him back to Jon.

Instead, what he found was a bright yellow door. It led back into the wagon, but Martin knew where it really went. _Assuming this isn’t a cruel prank from Helen,_ he thought ruefully. Shaking his head, he made his way over. As much as Helen acted indifferent, she and Michael both cared for Jon, and if anyone could save him, it was Martin.

Opening the door, he turned to the kids. “Hold hands,” he told them, holding out his own. Jack grabbed it, taking Rosies hand. Rosie held onto Cindy, who held onto Snow. With his chain of ducklings in tow, Martin stepped through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That glorious moment when the Mulan soundtrack has the perfect song title I can use for this chapter title.  
> also I hope some people caught the mechs reference with the kids names :)


	9. Friend Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Georgie protects her friend, or at least tries to.

Georgie hadn’t known what to expect once Martin left.

She and the others hadn’t even known he’d gone until Jon had trudged up the stairs, long after everyone else had collapsed onto the couch, all danced out. Tim had spotted him first, lifting his hand before he registered Jon’s slumped posture, the anxious furrow of his brow as he stared at the floor ahead of him. Georgie watched as Tim stood, walking over and lightly placing an arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon seemed to almost melt into the taller man, looking more tired than Georgie had seen him in a while. And Georgie had seen Jon in all sorts of states.

“Jon?” Georgie asked softly, and everyone ceased their chattering as Tim led him over to sit on the couch, Gerry moving onto the arm to make room for the tiny Archivist. “What’s the matter? Where’s Martin?”

Jon heaved a deep sigh, looking around at everyone. “Martin is–“ He stopped, rubbing his forehead. “Martin went home.”

Sasha stared. “What? Why? I thought he had nowhere to go.”

“Maybe his mother had a change of heart,” Daisy suggested with a shrug.

Jon shook his head. “No, that’s not it. He–I showed him his town, just so he could see it. See if he wanted to return– He didn’t tell me exactly what he saw. Only that his mother and two men in the town had rallied everyone to come here.” He took a deep breath and let it out before continuing. “To come here and kill me.”

There was silence for a moment as that sentence sunk in. Georgie stared at Jon, at his slumped form. No wonder he looked drained – the man he loved was gone to, presumably, stop a mob from storming their doors and killing him. She felt Melanie squeeze her hand, and Georgie realized she’d begun to bounce her knee, a sure sign she was stressed. She gave Melanie’s hand a grateful squeeze back.

“We’ll be ready for them,” Gerry said. Jon turned his head up to look at him. “Don’t look at me like that, Jonny.” Jon frowned at the nickname but said nothing. “We’re not just going to sit back and let an angry mob kill you. We’ll be ready.”

Melanie snorted. “Maybe we shouldn’t bother.”

“Melanie,” Georgie warned. She didn’t want to have this discussion again.

Melanie simply shrugged, and Jon sighed. “Melanie’s right. This isn’t your fight. I– I’m sure the castle can keep them out for a while, and if they do breach the doors you can all hide with Helen and Michael – they’ll keep you hidden.”

Tim was already shaking his head. “Yeah, sorry boss but that isn’t happening. We’re not just going to hunker down while a bunch of murderous bastards try to kill you.”

Sasha and Gerry nodded in agreement. “We’re with you, boss,” Sasha said gently, reaching over and placing a hand over Jon’s. Jon met her eyes and offered her a shaky smile.

“I’m in,” Daisy agreed, stretching her arms over her head. “Been a while since we’ve seen any good fighting.”

“Daisy, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jon said, voice weary. “The Hunt–“

“I’ll be fine, Jon. I’ll have Basira right next to me, keeping me, well, myself.” Basira gave Daisy a firm nod of agreement.

“I’m in,” Georgie said firmly. There was absolutely no way Jon was going to fight this fight alone, nor was Georgie going to hide with Helen and Michael in the basement while her friends fought.

She turned to Melanie, who was sitting with her arms crossed, saying nothing. After a moment of silence, she huffed out a breath. “If I have to fight, it’s going to be to protect myself and Georgie.”

Georgie sighed. “Melanie, can I speak with you for a moment?” Without waiting for an answer, she stood and made her way towards the kitchen, waiting until she heard footsteps follow her and the door shut. “What’s your problem?”

Melanie crossed her arms. “I think you know the answer to that perfectly well.”

Georgie pursed her lips. She did know exactly why Melanie hated Jon – the two stayed as far away from each other as they possibly could, Melanie because she could hardly stand the sound of Jon’s voice, and Jon out of respect for Melanie, at least according to him.

Which left Georgie caught in the middle of it.

Georgie reached out, taking Melanie’s hands in hers. Her hands were small, soft, and Georgie ran her thumb over her knuckles as Melanie sighed. “I’ve already lost my eyes because of him. I’m not exactly eager to lose my life, too.”

“Jon didn’t take out your eyes, Melanie.”

“He might as well have. It was supposed to make sure this shit didn’t happen again.”

“And who trapped us here?” Georgie demanded. “We were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Melanie scowled, still holding Georgie’s hand. “Look, I’m not going to fight for him.”

“I don’t expect you to. But please dont make this harder on him than it already is. Martin’s gone, and he’s not exactly taking that well.”

“Everyone was stupid to believe Martin would break the curse.”

“We really weren’t. Besides, we still have time. He may yet manage to do it.”

“Or Jon dies and we’re set free. What’s more likely to happen first? Come off it, Georgie, you even dated him. You know how hard he is to get close to.”

Georgie pursed her lips – Melanie was right in that regard. Jon was prickly, awkward, kept everyone at arms length out of fear of hurting them. Which, typically, ended up hurting people more anyway. She sighed. “Look, I– I know he’s not the easiest to deal with. But I still care about him, and so do the others. He’s our friend. I won’t ask you to fight – if Martin succeeds, we may not even have to. You’re one of the strongest people I know, Mel. But I’m going to protect him. Because in the end, he’s a person. A flawed person, yes, but a person nonetheless, and I won’t leave him to die.”

Melanie was silent for a moment before holding out her arms. Georgie wrapped her in a hug, stroking her hair. She felt a deep protectiveness sweep through her gut as she held her girlfriend close. “I love you, Georgie,” Melanie murmured into Georgie’s chest.

“I love you too.”

A knock came on the door. “Come in,” Melanie called, not moving away from Georgie. The door creaked open and Tim poked his head in.

“Sorry to interrupt, but we have a bit of a situation.”  
“What kind of situation?” Georgie asked.

Tim pursed his lips. “They’re here.”

The door shook as shouts rang through the foyer as the Archival Assistants and the Archivist stood, wondering what to do.

“Let us in!” came the chorused shout. “Give us the monster!”

“Fuck off!” Tim shouted. “There's no monster here! You’ve got the wrong address.”

The shouting grew incomprehensible, with so many voices layered on top of each other, but the meaning was clear. They were here for Jon, and none of them knew mercy.

Jon looked at each of them. “You should all hide downstairs. Michael and Helen will help you.”

Sasha shook her head. “Not without you, Jon.”

Jon pursed his lips, wringing his hands. “Perhaps if I give myself over, they’ll leave before they have the chance to find you.”

Daisy shook her head. “That’s stupid,” she declared. “What’s the point? Either hide with us or we fight with you. It’s simple.”

Jon shook his head. “It’s not, actually, that simple. I can’t let them get to the rose. If-if they destroy it, we may all be doomed, and I cannot let that happen. I’ll stay up in the West Wing to protect it.”

Georgie squeezed Melanie’s hand. “I’ll go with you.” Jon whipped his head around, but Georgie cut him off before he could argue. “No way am I letting you face down a mob of angry villagers alone, Jon. And you’re not convincing me otherwise.”

Daisy pulled a gun from her belt. “I’m coming, too. I can protect you both.”

“As can I,” Basira agreed, pulling out a gun identical to Daisy’s.

“I’m not even going to ask where you two got those,” Tim muttered, eyeing the two now-armed women.

Daisy shot him a grin that was all teeth. “Good. You shouldn’t.”

Jon nodded slowly. “Alright, fine. But the rest of you, please go into the tunnels. Helen and Michael will hide you.”

Melanie scoffed. “Don’t have to tell me twice.” She squeezed Georgie’s hand. “Don’t you dare die.”

“I don’t plan on it.”

Tim, Sasha, Melanie, and Gerry made their way towards the stairs leading to the basement, and Tim turned before vanishing out of sight. “Stay alive, boss,” was all he said before he descended along with the others.

Jon surveyed the three women. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Shouts and threats followed them as they ascended, heading left towards the West Wing. Jon’s shoulders were slumped, his hair covering his face as he led the way.

Georgie had never been to the West Wing before – she knew how much Jon hated people being in there, paranoid that if something happened to the rose with the eye at the centre, he’d be out of time and everyone would be trapped in the castle for good. Now, the rose stood with most of its petals collected on the table beneath the glass covering Jon had put over it. The eye seemed to stare at nothing and everything all at once, and Georgie shivered. She hated that thing.

Holding her gun near her leg, Daisy inched toward the large stained-glass window, peering out without letting herself be seen from outside. She gritted her teeth as she turned to everyone else in the room. “They look like a cartoon village mob,” she muttered. “Torches and pitchforks, the whole deal.”

Basira rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and allowing her gun to dangle from one finger. Georgie noticed Jon eyeing it nervously, and she gave his shoulder a light pat, to which he offered her a grateful smile, even if it was a little forced.

Then, looking outside the window, Georgie spotted something odd. A man, shrewd and poised was standing by the gates, all the way on the other side of the garden from the rest of the mob, who were still working at breaking down the door. The man seemed to be observing, and seemed to have his gaze fixed on the window the four of them were looking out of. There was no way he could see them here, nor that he could know where, exactly, they were.

“Jon,” Georgie whispered, pointing to him. Jon narrowed his eyes. “Who is that man?”

“That is,” Jon began, before his eyes widened in shock and fear. “Oh my god.”

“What’s wrong, Jon?”

“It’s him,” Jon whispered. “It’s Jonah Magnus.”

Georgie stared, keeping a hand on Jon’s arm to keep the Archivist upright. “Are you sure?”

Jon nodded. “Positive. His name is Elias Bouchard, but he has Jonah’s eyes. He’s Jonah’s latest vessel.”

“Which means he knows exactly where we are,” Basira said. “Exactly where _you_ are.”

Jon nodded. “Yes, that he does.”

Daisy watched him from her position by the window. “What exactly is he doing?” she demanded. “What’s his play? He's already cursed you, and by extension, all of us, so what's he gaining out of this whole mob scene?”

Jon shook his head. “I have no idea. He must want something, but I–I can’t think of what that could be.”

It was at that moment that they heard a loud _crash_ echoing from below, and joyous shouts from the mob as one of the doors finally gave way and banged open, sending people spilling into the foyer.

Georgie braced herself, putting an arm out as though to push Jon behind her, but her arm met only empty air. She turned, seeing only Daisy and Basira behind her, guns at the ready. They looked as bewildered as she felt.

Jon was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all liked your Georgie chapter and wtgfs juice :)  
> Next chapter is the final chapter and it's going up tomorrow!


	10. Show Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin is determined to break the curse, and no one can get in his way.

Martin stepped out of the bright yellow door and into the tunnels beneath the castle, staying on his feet and making sure the kids weren’t about to fall over.

“Marto!” Helen squealed, making her way over. “Aww, who are the little ones? They’re adorable!”

Jack looked up at the disorienting woman and waved. “We’ve met. You’re Helen.”

“Yes, I remember you, young Jack. You’re quite the hero, aren’t you? Coming back here with Martin?”

Jack squared his shoulders as the other three kids crowded behind him. Martin watched the interaction carefully, as did Michael, who was leaning against the wall with his hands tucked dutifully behind his back. “Yeah, we all are!” Jack declared. “We’re going to help Mr. Sims.”

“Wouldn’t recommend that.”

Martin turned to see Tim appear from one of the hallways. He felt himself grin, relieved at the familiar sight. Tim strode over and wrapped Martin in a crushing hug. “It’s good to see you. Glad you didn’t get killed by the mob or something.”

Martin wheezed out a laugh. “Yeah, no, not yet anyway.” He gave Tim a pat on the back as he pulled away, revealing that Sasha, Gerry, and Melanie had appeared behind him.

Sasha ran over and threw her arms around Martin’s neck, and Martin hugged her back tight. “I’m so happy you’re alright.”

“You too. Where are the others? Daisy, Basira, Georgie? Where’s Jon?”

“They went to the West Wing, to protect the rose,” Gerry replied, hands in the pockets of his black jeans. “Jon’s worried that if it gets destroyed, we’re all fucked.”

“Gerry,” Sasha chided. “There are children present.”

Martin turned around once again to check on the kids, and what he saw made his stomach plumet to the floor.

All around Jack was a thick, grey mist. The other kids were all staring with a sense of wonder and confusion, peering closely at Jack as though he’d transformed into a ferret right before their eyes. Jack, for his part, was staring ahead, eyes unfocused.

Panic seized Martin as he dropped to his knees in front of the boy, grabbing him by the upper arms and looking into his face. “Jack. Jack, look at me.”

Jack’s eyes slowly drifted up to Martin’s face. “Hello, Martin.” His voice sounded horribly far away.

“Jack, I need you to listen to me. What do you see?”

“I see fog. I can’t see much through it. But it’s comforting. A bit like a hug. It’s cold, but I like it.”

“Jack, I need you to listen to me. Look right at me. What can you see?”

“I can see you, a little. But you’re drifting away.”

“Jack, Jack, listen to me very carefully. I’m going to need you to be a superhero right now. Do you think you can do that? You’re a superhero, right?”

Jack nodded very slowly. “I’m a superhero. A comfy superhero.”

“I need you to be a superhero right now, okay? I need you to look at me and tell me exactly what you see.” Jack’s eyes began to focus on Martin’s face. "What do you see, Jack? Who do you see?”

“I see,” he paused, colour returning to his face and the fog beginning to dissipate. “I see Martin. I see my friend.”

Martin nearly collapsed with relief as the rest of the fog seemed to sink to Jack’s feet before vanishing. “Good job, Jack. I’m proud of you.” He wrapped the boy in a hug, squeezing him tightly. The tightness in his chest, however, remained. That had been too close – he didn’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t noticed when he had.

Releasing Jack, Martin stood and turned to the other kids – Cindy still had The Admiral in her arms. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” he told them, and the three of them nodded. “You’re all going to stay down here, with Sasha, Gerry, Tim, and Melanie. Helen and Michael will keep you safe from the people upstairs.”

“Where are you going?” Rosie demanded, hands on her hips. She looked afraid, but not for herself. “If the people upstairs are scary, why are you going?”

Martin smiled before kneeling, gathering all the children into a big group hug. They all wrapped their arms around him and each other, Cindy and The Admiral crushed in the middle. The Admiral let out a _mrrrow_ of discontent, but didn’t leave Cindy’s arms. “I have to go help someone very important to me,” he explained to them. “This person needs me, because I’m the only one who can save him. But once I do, I’ll come right back for you, okay? I promise.”

Rosie and Snow looked up at him, clearly sisters despite their wildly different appearances. “Please do come back,” Snow said softly. “We’d like you to read us more stories.”

Martin smiled and ruffled her hair. “This place has a huge library. Once I’m back, we can go and read all the stories you want.”

Their eyes lit up at the mention of a huge library. Martin ruffled each of their heads one last time before standing, turning to Michael and Helen.

“Take me to Jon.”

Michael’s purple door deposited Martin on the highest balcony in the castle. The wind blew right through Martin’s jumper, and he shivered violently. He turned each way he could, trying to find where Jon was. At first, he couldn’t see the slight form of the Archivist. Leaning over the balcony, hands braced so he didn’t go plummeting over the edge, he finally spotted Jon, perched on the roof below him. The mob, Martin noticed with a start, had made it inside – he could hear their shouting from below him, and the doors were open. But in the garden stood the form of Elias Bouchard, and he seemed to be talking to Jon.

“Just give up, Jon,” Elias was shouting over the wind, though his voice sounded infuriatingly calm. “They’re not going to be free. Those people are very angry, you know.”

“What do you want, Jonah?” Jon demanded. Martin gasped at the name – Elias Bouchard was Jonah Magnus? “You’ve already taken everything from me. What more could you possibly want?”

Elias grinned a horrible grin. “You see, Jon, I thought that too. But it seems that I’ve accidentally given you something, something quite wonderful. And, well, we can’t have that, now, can we?” Elias tsked. “I was surprised, when I heard that the Blackwood boy was here. He’d always been too trusting. Only someone as naive as him could learn to love a monster like you.”

“Don’t talk about Martin like that,” Jon warned, and despite everything, something in Martin’s chest warmed at Jon defending him. "He's not some pawn for you to play with.”

“Oh, of course not. I didn't send him here. Sending you the exact solution to my curse would've been counterproductive, don’t you think?” He smiled that terrible smile again. “But as much as I hate it, it happened. So I need to take matters into my own hands.”

“Stop!” Martin shouted. Jon whipped his head around, staring as Martin began to clamber from roof to roof, making his way down toward him. He looked almost as though he couldn't believe Martin was there. “Leave him alone, Elias.”

Elias laughed. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be doing that.” Before Martin could register what was happening, a resounding _bang_ echoed in Martin’s ears. The shock made him lose his footing, and he shouted as he slid, falling onto his side and rolling dangerously close to the edge. Pain shot up his arm and leg as his heart thundered in his chest, sending adrenaline coursing through his veins.

_Jon_.

Martin peered over the edge just in time to see Jon turn toward him, giving him a wavering smile as he whispered, “Martin,” before collapsing in a heap on the roof.

“Jon!” Martin shouted, his voice sounding shrill in his own ears. “Jon!” He scrambled along the roof, gripping the edge until his knuckles were white so he wouldn’t go tumbling to his death. Blood rushed in his ears as he carefully lowered himself, panic rising in his throat as he wondered whether he would make it in time. His hands slid and he was tumbling, his stomach rising into his throat as the world tilted and he was falling and–

He hit the roof portion below with a loud _thud_ that sent the panelling shaking. Martin felt a sharp pain shoot up his leg, but the adrenaline kept him going, his eyes set on Jon. The Archivist wasn’t moving, collapsed onto his side, red pouring onto the roof below.

_Please just let him be alive please let him be okay please–_

Finally, after what felt like all too long and no time at all, Martin collapsed to his knees next to Jon, cradling his head as gently as he could. “Jon?” Martin whispered. “Jon, can you hear me? Please answer me, Jon.”

Finally, Jon’s eyes opened, hazy for a moment until the focused on Martin. “Martin,” Jon murmured, his voice high-pitched and soft. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here, Jon, come on, let’s get you inside–“

“Martin.”

“No, Jon, don’t start with any of your depressing nonsense, you’re going to be fine, alright? Do you hear me? You’re going to be perfectly fine.”

Jon coughed. “Martin.” He reached up a hand, brushing Martin’s curls away from his eyes, strawberry blonde starkly pale against Jon’s skin. “I've been wanting to do that for a long time,” he laughed softly, weakly. “Thank you.”

Martin covered Jon’s hand with his. “For what?”

“For–for coming back. For being there. For always seeing the best in me. For being so damn easy to love.”

Martin’s heart was pounding, and he could feel warmth spreading through his chest. “Jon,” he said. “I want you to look into my head.”

Jon blinked up at him, painfully slowly. His breathing was becoming more laborious, and Martin knew there wasn’t much time left. “But–“

“Please, Jon, just do it.” Martin leaned down, pressing his forehead to Jon’s, as if it would make any difference.

Jon gasped as Martin pushed every single memory he could to the front of his mind of how he felt about Jon – the way his heart raced when he was near, the butterflies in his stomach he’d felt those first few times their hands had brushed together, the warmth in his chest he felt at this very moment. He thought about all of his emotions and feelings and choices that had led him here, choosing to stay behind, caring for Jon and bringing him tea and talking to him in the library, walking with him through the gardens, everything that Martin had learned about Jon and all the things that made him so human and so, so loveable.

He thought about the way he wanted to make Jon laugh, and the way he felt when he got one of his rare, genuine smiles. He brought to mind how deeply he cared for this man, how he’d always protect him no matter what. He brought one phrase to mind, over and over and over again.

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you._

When Martin opened his eyes, Jon was staring at him, tears streaming down his face. As Martin watched, a greenish glow appeared around Jon, and Martin noticed that the blood had stopped leaking from his side. Jon was staring at Martin, mouth agape, before he turned his face upwards.

“Look at the sky, Martin,” he whispered, voice full of awe. “It’s looking back.”

Martin looked up and the sky, indeed, was full of eyes, staring at him, at the castle, at the woods, at _everything_. Then, slowly, one by one, the eyes blinked, and closed, and vanished. Slowly, the sky returned to its normal black of nighttime, the green eyes vanishing once and for all. Eventually, the night sky was as normal as could be.

Martin looked down at Jon, who was looking at the sky. He looked exhausted, leaning against Martin for support as he turned his eyes to Martin’s face.

“What do you see?” Martin asked.

Jon blinked in wonder. “Nothing,” he said, and seemed to contemplate this for a moment. “I see nothing. I don’t Know anything! I’m back to normal, I– I can live my life again.”

Martin couldn’t stop the smile that spread over his face. “That’s good.”

“I–well, I–hm.” He seemed at a loss for words.

Martin gave a light chuckle. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, I–I just,” Jon sighed, before taking Martin’s face in both hands and leaning his forehead on his. “I love you too.”

A breathy laugh escaped Martin’s lips as they met Jon’s, and Jon’s lips were warm and Martin wrapped his arms around his bony frame as Jon’s fingers slid into his hair, and Martin’s heart felt like it was soaring as they sat on the roof, blissfully unaware of the world around them.

That was, until a wolf whistle from behind them broke them apart, and they turned to see Daisy and Basira watching from the West Wing window. “It’s about time!” Daisy shouted, her voice muffled by the glass, and Martin barked a laugh as Jon flipped her off.

Jon turned to Martin and pressed his lips to his again, and it tasted like salt and Earl Grey and Jon smelled like home to Martin.

“Shall we go back inside?” Martin asked.

Jon looked out at the garden, seeming to marvel at being able to see only out of two eyes rather than hundreds upon thousands of them. “Not yet.”  
So there they stayed, for who knew how long, Jon tucked into Martin’s side, Martin running his fingers through Jon’s beautiful hair like he’d been wanting to do for months. There they stayed until the sun rose, finally getting their chance at happiness, and refusing to let it go.

As for the villagers, they found themselves back in their homes after a run-in with some very strange doors. Elias and Peter were never heard from again.

The castle, the stories say, was abandoned after that. Though some nights, if you leaned out your window at just the right moment, you could hear dance music playing, and maybe you, too, could believe, if even just for a moment, that everything would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand it's done! Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented, reading the comments made my day!  
> I'll probably end up posting more one-shot style stuff on this account once school stops kicking my ass :')  
> Thanks for all the love on this fic to everyone who's read it, I've never met y'all but you're great :)


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